better late (than not ever)
by obvious apostate
Summary: Someone comes round to the bookshop looking for Aziraphale. He isn't in, but Crowley is. Too bad for him, really.
1. Part 1 Chapter 1

First time in a looooong time posting on this site!

This fic was inspired by beautiful, heartbreaking artwork that can be found here: twitter (d0t) com/speremint/status/1142139474580840450

Be forewarned about some blood and gore if you follow through that link (and to a lesser degree, for the fic as well).

* * *

It's six minutes past noon when Crowley arrives outside of A.Z. Fell & Co., just as he has most days in the three weeks since the apocalypse-that-was-actually-just-another-Saturday. The day is overcast, par for the course in London, but that won't do for the picnic his angel has planned and so he sends a withering glare skyward as he approaches the shop's entrance.

It's just a warning, really. The clouds still have some time to get their acts together and be on their dismal and dreary way, after which point it won't be Mr. Nice Demon.

Although clouds usually seem rather perceptive, and he knows they'll be gone by the time he heads back outside towards the Bentley, basket and bottles and tartan blanket and angel all in tow.

He twists the doorknob, frowns when he finds it locked. A quick glance at the shaded windows and sign on the door he's never actually bothered to read suggests the shop really is closed, so he unlocks the door with a quick thought and lets himself in, locking it again behind him.

Well, he _was_ early. For once. Aziraphale probably just popped out to grab some kind of fancy cheese or another bottle of wine.

Crowley hopes it's the latter. That would probably go better with the chocolates he's brought.

With little else to do, he waits. Not that that's a problem, really. With over six thousand years' experience under his snakeskin belt, waiting is something he's become extremely good at.

Too good, maybe.

It doesn't matter. Things are good now, maybe better than they've ever been, and he can wait a little longer.

The lights in the shop are still on, he dims them with a snap of his fingers and tosses the box of candy onto one of the few tabletops with free space as he heads for the backroom. Comfier chairs to sprawl in while he waits. He could go upstairs, to Aziraphale's equally-cluttered but equally-cozy little flat, but he doesn't want to presume to be welcome up there when the angel isn't present.

...except he _does_ want to presume that, very much so actually, and is near certain Aziraphale wouldn't mind in the least anyway, but he sits himself down in a well-worn leather chair nevertheless, slides his glasses up to rest on his forehead.

It was one thing to presume, quite another to act on that presumption.

He can wait.

He watches the seconds tick by on his watch for awhile. He flips through several books within reaching distance without taking in any of the words before placing them carefully back on their shelves. He has a few stern words with a slightly wilted spider plant in the corner of the room, which begins to perk up almost immediately, leaves trembling almost imperceptibly.

And then he looks at his watch again, the breath of air escaping through his teeth sounding more like a hiss as he sighs deeply when he realises it's only been four minutes since he sat down.

12:11. They were meant to go for lunch at one. Aziraphale would be back in time to finish preparing their picnic, so maybe...12:45? At the very latest.

It's fine. He can wait.

He's midway through counting the books on the shelf fourth from the right side of the room, third from the top (there had been nineteen second shelf from the top) when he hears the bell above the shop's front door announcing someone's presence. He slides to his feet, is about to call the angel's name when he pauses, sniffs the air cautiously.

...the bell announced some_thing_'s presence, at least. Something trying very hard to pass as human, something that likely would have succeeded with anything besides another of it's own kind.

He's silent as he crosses the room, placing sunglasses back over his eyes and throwing out a quick ward around the shop to suggest that any potential customers may suddenly have more interest in visiting the Waterstones in Piccadilly instead.

It won't deter Aziraphale in the least, but he can hope to have it long gone before the angel reappears.

He throws open the door of the backroom without having really decided whether he's going to take a confrontational or an indifferent approach with the unwelcome visitor, before taking in the scene before him and abandoning both options in favour of mild confusion and slightly less-than-mild panic.

There isn't just one demon. There's five of them.

Well, fuck. He was already getting sloppy in his newfound retirement.

They look just like tourists of the young, backpacking variety, fresh from the youth hostel two streets over and ready to see the sights of London. They watch him from the doorway, and smile pleasantly enough, with the unnerving exception that the one in front has far too many teeth to truly pass as any self-respecting human.

She steps forward, grin still on display but not reaching her eyes, which have in turn already begun changing from a lovely shade of blue to a much darker, angrier red. But she holds her hands out kindly, as if welcoming an old friend. "Ah! Crawly, isn't it?"

Crowley doesn't know any of them - which isn't that out of the ordinary, there are millions of demons, after all, so if they weren't at the trial, why should they know him? - but he finds it in him to be a little bit offended nonetheless.

"Really? Two thousand years since I've changed it, none of you noticed?"

Another of the tourist-demons, complete with a backpack and a camera around his neck, waves a hand idly and Crowley hears the front door lock tight, likely with far more than simply the deadbolt.

The one apparently in charge shrugs, doesn't bother with an answer. "Your friend here? The angel?"

Another split second decision he hopes he doesn't fuck up as he chooses to answer truthfully, leaning on the doorframe in a convincing attempt at nonchalance. "He isn't, actually. Could I take a message for him and then send you on your way?"

The demon laughs, a short, sharp sound without any humour. "We just wanted to see the angel immune to Hellfire. Fascinating, that."

"Fascinating, yeah."

"Looks like we've found you instead. A traitor, one I've heard is similarly immune to Holy Water. Since we're here anyway, mind telling us how you did it?"

Crowley glances at the old clock ticking away on the wall above their heads. 12:17. He shrugs his shoulder not currently leaning on the doorframe and waves a hand airily. "Oh, well, you know, limited sugar intake, yearly checkups, vaccinations all up to date."

There's a sound like a whip-crack and the demon disappears, only to rematerialize directly in front of him a split second later, hands tight around the lapels of his blazer. Her too-many teeth are already growing longer. "Listen hear, Crawly -"

But he's not listening, he'd really rather not, thank you very much, and two can play at this game. He's got fangs of his own, and more than that besides.

He shoves her back, more force in the gesture than a normal man of his stature would possess, and one she clearly wasn't expecting besides because she staggers a few steps back. He follows her, feels the planes shift around him slightly as he steps out of the doorway to make room for his wings. They flex out behind him, taking up an impressive amount of space in the cluttered shop. The lights he had turned down minutes before brighten and flicker with power surges not present anywhere else on the block.

Anything to up the intimidation factor.

Crowley smiles darkly, displays pointed teeth of his own. "Now, _you_ lisssten. You must know what happened at my trial, even if you weren't there." He hadn't been, after all, and he knew. "It was decided to leave me alone. Now if you'll be on your way, we can pretend this never happened and Hell won't need to find out you've ignored that decision."

He actually thinks it will work, for a moment. Two of the demons nearer to the door must be new to earth or inexperienced, because they look about ready to bolt through the sealed front door.

If they're all like this, maybe it'll be easier than he -

The thought fizzles and dies in his head as the one in charge laughs again, seeming to genuinely be enjoying herself. "You think we actually care about any rules or limitations Hell brings about?" Well, he could relate to _that_ sentiment, at least. She continues before he can reply, still grinning. "You're something else, aren't you?"

"I thought that was obvious when I jumped in a tub of Holy Water. Last chance."

"And it looks like you missed it." This time she's the one to snap her fingers, and it's two of her companions who reappear on either side of him, grips tight around his arms and forcing him towards the ground before he can react.

But react he does even if just a little too late, hissing and clawing and using whatever impromptu weapons he can grab (an old letter opener on the desk) and coming just short of calling up some flame (not the books, not again). He'd never been much of a fighter, but every demon knows the basics. It's a near essential part of the job description, and he can't help the dark thrill of satisfaction when his makeshift blade plunges deeply into camera-demon's leg, who in turn yelps in pain.

All in all, his efforts may have been enough to deter two or even three demons - but not four, and certainly not five.

Most certainly not when the fifth was whatever _she_ is. He really should have paid more attention at the biannual mixers.

"Enough."

When she raises a hand, almost looking bored, Crowley suddenly feels as though he hasn't slept in three centuries. But it's more than that, because he doesn't actually need sleep. But he does need all of the otherworldly perks that come with being a demon, the ones that he can feel are rapidly draining away.

Kind of like Falling again, but without the drastic change in altitude and the sulphur and the pain.

Most of the pain, anyway. He vaguely registers a throbbing sensation somewhere in his ribcage and wonders if he's not the only one who found a letter opener.

He's pushed onto his knees and he can barely find the strength to resist. Even still, he manages to glare at the demon in charge as she stands in front of him, taking glasses which had miraculously stayed put off his face and tossing them somewhere behind her.

"This has been entertaining, Crawly, not a wasted trip after all," she gestures to the two holding him in place and in the next moment he finds himself shoved forward, face pressed painfully into the old wood flooring. He takes a second, focuses to shift his wings back to the ethereal plane (they were just in the way at this point, really), and the panic instantly flares up anew when something stops him from doing so.

"There's just one thing that's been bothering me since this all started," her ever-present smile turns vicious, even though he can no longer see her face.

"Snakes don't have wings."

* * *

Crowley doesn't know what she says when they leave. He hears the words, but can't focus to make them into any sort of coherent speech. He hears the bell, mockingly cheerful as it marks their departure, though it sounds like it's coming from several miles away and several miles underwater. He's still on the floor, a rapidly growing pool of blood seeping into the floorboards and his clothes, and he hazily considers the idea of just never moving ever again. Might hurt less.

Because the pain...well, however briefly he'd considered whatever she'd done before to be akin to Falling, it had nothing on this.

He can already feel some of his powers returning, albeit sluggishly - seems whatever she had done had only temporarily blocked them, hadn't taken them away entirely. It's a slow thrum of energy that does little to dull the agony radiating from his back and his wings.

Or what might be left of them.

He doesn't dare look.

Instead he just stares blearily across the room, to the small tables that have been upturned in the struggle, fallen books splashed with dark blood and a box of chocolates spilled across the floor.

Oh, no. The chocolates. Aziraphale would be so disappointed. They were from his favourite shop, and -

_Aziraphale._

He couldn't come home to this. The poor angel would have a heart attack, and his discorporation at that moment would be highly inconvenient.

Crowley takes one more long, long moment, then focuses all of his effort into pushing himself back into a kneeling position. His wings seem to scream at the unwanted movement, and it takes all his willpower not to scream out in kind.

Another moment, and then several more, and then he's on his feet, leaning heavily on a larger table. Even without the sight of bloodied black feathers strewn across the floor, the pain was enough to make him dry heave. He didn't often eat unless he was with Aziraphale, and perhaps it was lucky they hadn't been out for lunch in a few days. One fewer mess to clean up in the shop.

_Oh, angel, I'm so sorry..._

He thinks for a moment, fights past the haze of pain that's threatening to knock his body unconscious, and imagines that everything's fine. That the bookshop is fine, that his wings are fine, that he's...fine...

And to anyone who would happen to walk into the shop in the next few minutes, that's exactly what they might see. A cluttered but clean bookshop, certainly free of bloodstains and worse, and a man, exhausted but whole, any wings he may or may not possess temporarily held in a parallel plane through sheer determination and stubbornness alone.

There...everything is fine. He just needs to keep that in mind until Aziraphale returns. Then he can break it to him slowly, no need to spring it on him all at once. Crowley glances down towards his hand still planted firmly on the table, to the watch on his wrist splattered with blood visible to nobody except him.

12:46.

He can wait.


	2. Part 1 Chapter 2

It's forty five minutes past noon when Aziraphale starts the short walk back towards home, bottle of wine tucked safely in the crook of his arm as he exits the shop and joins the steady stream of people crowding the sidewalks. The day had started overcast, par for the course in London, but the sky has brightened up considerably since he left for his errand and so he sends a cheerful glance skyward as he walks.

It's just a small gesture of appreciation, really. The clouds could have hung around, cast their shadows on the city for the rest of the day, at which point they may have considered pulling a rain check for the picnic.

Although clouds usually seem rather perceptive, and he hopes they'll stay elsewhere by the time he's heading back outside towards the Bentley, basket and bottles and tartan blanket and Crowley all present and accounted for.

There seems to be many others taking advantage in the turn of the weather as well, the walkways more congested than usual and slowing down his trek home somewhat. He nearly drops his purchase when a crowd of young tourists all but crash into him as they both round a corner from opposite directions, but the boy with a slight limp and a camera around his neck catches the bottle at the last second before holding it back out to him carefully.

"Sorry about that."

"Oh, no harm done. Thank you," he takes the wine back, exchanges cordial smiles with the polite young man and continues on his way.

It's not until he's less than half a block away that he starts to feel the remnants of a ward cast around the shop. He frowns, is about to pick up the pace before he sees the Bentley parked at the curb and relaxes slightly.

Well, it was entirely likely Crowley just didn't want to deal with any potential customers.

He could have waited upstairs in the flat, of course, but then Aziraphale reconsiders the thought. Had he ever actually _told_ Crowley to come and go as he pleased? It would be fine of course (more than fine?), but had he ever actually extended the offer in words?

He can't recall.

He resolves to make that offer today. It's the least he can do. Friends for over six thousand years, but he'd always been wary of stepping over some invisible line and alerting either of their respective head offices of the Arrangement, had always been good at avoiding any obscured boundaries that might tip them off.

Too good, maybe.

It doesn't matter. Things are good now, maybe better than they've ever been, and he can make that extra effort now.

The shop's entrance is unlocked even though the shades are still drawn, and that only reaffirms his belief in Crowley's disinterest in conversing with customers as he opens the door. The belief that's confirmed as he steps inside and sees the demon in question leaning heavily on a table with both arms, staring firmly at the page of a random, open book.

Later, Aziraphale will be guilt-ridden, thinking of how he should have noticed the way his arms shook slightly, how he wasn't staring at the book, but at nothing at all. How he should have felt the anger and the pain and the fear echoing in the room.

But in the moment, all he feels is joy from seeing his dearest friend, contentment from being reunited once again. "Crowley! So sorry to have kept you waiting, I thought I'd just nip out to -" he falters as he glances down, stops his next footfall just moments before he would have stepped on a pair of designer sunglasses. He picks them up, feels his heart drop painfully when he sees they're already cracked. "My dear, is everything alright?"

" 'm fine."

Aziraphale makes the few short steps over to the demon, places a hand on his back in concern, and withdraws it almost instantly when the hiss that escapes Crowley's lips almost sounds tangled with a sob.

He turns around, looking to leave the bottle on the nearest spot of free space in order to deal with the far more pressing concern that was rapidly making itself known, and distantly considers the fact that Crowley's blazer felt damp despite the fact it had never actually rained. He all but tosses the wine bottle onto a small end table, stops it from teetering off the edge with a haphazard thought. A good choice on the bottle's behalf, because he absolutely would have let it fall from his hand and shatter on the floor when he turns back to his friend and a scene straight out of his darkest nightmares.

The bookshop is unrecognizable from what he'd seen mere seconds before. Tables upturned, books and trinkets tossed everywhere, lamps and a window cracked, a box of his favourite chocolates and a mug with an angel-wing handle broken and scattered across the floor.

And blood. It's everywhere. Sprayed across tables and walls, pooled on the floor, seeping into cracks in the old wood. Blood, and skin, and...feathers? Black feathers.

He sees it all, but it barely registers because his eyes and his thoughts and his rapidly beating heart all focus solely on the demon who is no longer leaning on the table, who is instead trying to stagger the couple of steps needed to reach Aziraphale.

He too is covered in blood, rivulets of crimson dripping from torn sleeves to run off his fingertips and get lost amongst the gore-covered floorboards. It's near impossible to tell how badly his body is damaged, his dark clothes likely hiding much of the true extent, but it has to be nothing compared to the state of his wings.

Aziraphale had always thought Crowley's wings were beautiful - sleek and dark and well-cared for, much like everything else the demon took pride in. But what he's staring at now is nothing more than a horrifying distortion of what they used to be. Broken, mangled, useless things, stripped of feathers and in many places, skin and muscle as well. There's still more blood dripping from them, the sound of it hitting the floor in near perfect harmony with the ticking of the clock on the wall.

And there are tears already falling from bloodshot yellow eyes, which might somehow be the worst, most terrifying part. Had he ever seen Crowley cry before? Maybe he got a little weepy once or twice in the last six thousand years, when they were four bottles deep and humanity was struggling deeply, but never for himself.

Never.

Aziraphale is already in tears himself, already moving forward even as he takes it all in, arms extended, because he doesn't want Crowley to take another haggard step.

He doesn't, because his knees buckle and he pitches forward, but there's an angel this time to catch him when he falls.

Aziraphale holds him firmly with gentle hands, careful not to touch Crowley's shredded wings, keeps him upright. Any other position would cause even more jostling to his wings, cause more pain he most desperately wants to keep at bay. He feels trembling, bloodstained fingertips digging into his back, trying to grip on to some sort of stability, some kind of comfort. He tries to provide both as best he can.

"I'm here, it's safe now, nothing else is going to happen. I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I -"

His voice catches as the demon's head drops onto his shoulder, and Crowley begins to sob. Loudly, harshly, vocalising a pain Aziraphale has never had to suffer, but one similar to what he thinks Crowley himself may have gone through once before, a long, long time ago.

But he isn't alone this time. And needn't be ever again.

Aziraphale holds him as tightly as he dares, loathe to cause any more pain but determined to provide as much comfort as possible.

As _angelically_ possible, preferably, but it's not even been a month since their trials and he doesn't want to attract any attention from upstairs with large miracles.

So instead Aziraphale continues to whisper comforting nothings, near fully supporting Crowley's weight as the demon continues to cry. He channels as much energy as he dares into the other as he tries to numb the pain and heal more superficial wounds. A slow and relatively minor, but steady stream that seems to start working it's magic when eventually the sobs begin to quieten.

Aziraphale still doesn't move as the other slowly begins to fall silent entirely, as the trembling shoulders and shaking hands become still. A little extra magic to help along unconsciousness was likely a blessing in disguise that the demon could still tolerate.

He stands motionless a moment longer, braces himself for the largest miracle he's prepared to carry out while simultaneously praying that somewhere, some other angel is pulling off something far larger at the same time, drawing any prying eyes from Heaven away from him and what he's about to do.

He snaps his fingers and the next instant finds them both upstairs in his bedroom. Crowley is no longer covered in blood or shredded clothes, instead dressed in comfortable sleep pants and a dark cotton shirt. His more concerning bodily wounds (had that been a stab wound between his ribs?) are already near healed, because the amount of blood downstairs in the shop was more than concerning. It had looked like far more than a human body should stand to lose, and if Crowley discorporated now, Aziraphale is frighteningly certain he would not be seeing the demon again.

So it wasn't an option, it had been a risk worth taking, and anything immediately threatening to his human body has been seen to.

None of that is really what Aziraphale is most worried about, however.

He'd also ensured Crowley's wings were seen to, the very worst of the damage healed just to the point where nothing would be irreversible. It would be slow going, the healing process - he couldn't do it all at once, that would almost certainly attract notice he wasn't interested in gaining them, but this was a start. And there are no trumpets sounding, no lightning strikes to announce the arrival of company he'd rather never keep again, so he considers his miracle both discrete and a success.

Besides, he isn't sure he would be able to heal Crowley's wings entirely with angelic magic anyway.

There's only one creature that would cause this kind of damage, never mind actually _could_, and their type of influence ran directly against the kind of which he would try to help with.

He has no idea what happened, but now certainly isn't the time to ask.

Aziraphale lays the demon on the bed carefully, resting on his side with wings gently spread out behind him. He's unsure when Crowley will wake up, so he makes short work of cleaning himself up. He removes his bloodstained coat, leaves it folded over the back of a chair before leaving to wash his hands and arms. He hadn't bothered to miracle himself clean - extra energy put to much better use elsewhere - and besides, there was no shame if he needed a minute or two alone in the bathroom to try and compose himself.

He's back in the bedroom within ten minutes, after having fixed himself up and placing a new, much more insistent ward around the shop. He sets a brand new pair of sunglasses fetched from the Bentley on the bedside table, ready should Crowley wish for them when he wakes up. Finally, he pulls his chair up beside the bed before settling himself into it.

There's the slow and steady sound of raindrops hitting the roof.

Clouds usually were rather perceptive.

He sits quietly, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours, watches his charge with a worried yet patient expression.

But however long it was, it wasn't as long as Aziraphale would have liked. That's not to say he doesn't feel immense relief as he sees yellow eyes slowly blink open, but at the same time, the longer Crowley stayed sleeping, the longer he wouldn't have to deal with all the pain and discomfort that consciousness would bring.

Aziraphale wants to ask so many questions, leading the charge with a near frantic _what happened?_

But that can wait for the moment.

"How are you?" He asks softly instead, when Crowley's bleary stare lands on him for a moment. The demon doesn't answer right away, nor does he move anything other than his eyes. His gaze moves from the angel to elsewhere in the room, including to the glasses beside the bed. He doesn't reach for them.

"Right fucked, actually," Crowley says eventually, quietly but with emphasis on certain words that Aziraphale has come to expect after such a long time as friends. "Or I would have been, without you." He pauses, once again looks around to meet the angel's gaze, and holds it this time. "Thank you."

In half a moment Aziraphale considers the countless times over the centuries they've told each other not to say those words, not to elaborate, not to bring it up again. He offers a small but sincere smile. "You are most welcome."

For his part, Crowley doesn't comment further and instead takes it upon himself to glance elsewhere around the room again. Aziraphale watches him notice the bloody handprints on the coat hung over his chair, and he has the audacity to look almost embarrassed as he purses his lips. "Sorry, angel. I'll fix that when I can.

Aziraphale takes the demon's hand resting on the bed between both his own without a second thought. "Darling, you will do nothing of the sort."

He might be imagining the flush high on Crowley's cheekbones, or maybe it's just more obvious against sickly pale skin. "But you said - a hundred and eighty years -"

"Means nothing at all compared to six thousand." His grasp is firm, and he hopes it helps to convey how adamantly he means the words. "Just as a coat means nothing at all compared to you. So it truly is the _very_ least of my concerns."

He doesn't say anything else, only offers another smile and a return of the gesture when Crowley eventually gives his hand a tiny squeeze. Doesn't comment when he sheds a few more tears, only brushes them away with a gentle thumb.

Crowley doesn't let go of his other hand, though, not even after he's fallen asleep again. And Aziraphale doesn't loosen his grip, not even after the demon wouldn't know.

He can make the extra effort now.

Now more than ever.


	3. Part 2 Chapter 1

Hi! The following chapters are a sequel (of a sort) to this two-shot, for those who were interested in what might happen afterwards. It was originally posted as a separate fic, but here I'll just be adding it as a continuation to this one. Because of this, just a little editing note - the tense will switch to past from here on out.

* * *

Crowley would be a liar if he said he'd never imagined what life might be like living with Aziraphale.

Reality wasn't much lining up with what he may or may not have daydreamed about (only a time or two, certainly), but he'd been waiting for awhile, after all, and he'd take what he could get.

And he would say that he hadn't ever imagined it, probably, if anyone ever had the idea to ask him.

That was alright though, because he _was_ a liar, wasn't he?

"It's great, thanks, angel," he would say when Aziraphale pushed yet another bowl of soup into his hands and then waited impatiently for him to try a spoonful. Sure, his gratitude towards the effort the angel went to for him was genuine - and they said thanks to one another a lot, now, maybe making up for missed opportunities - but his concoctions were always...a little lacking. Improving over the last each and every time, but still not something Crowley had much interest in eating. Really, for all his love for the finer foods in the world, the angel apparently couldn't cook to save his life - or to nurse a demon's human body back to health.

There were probably better ways to be using his limited energy than thinking away the contents of the bowls he was given once the angel puttered off to another room in the flat, but not many had ever accused him of being clever, either.

"I couldn't eat another, really," he would insist whenever, similarly, Aziraphale handed him another cookie or tart, usually still warm from the oven. Because for however terrible a cook the angel was, he certainly made up for it with baking skills. They were always immensely better than any of the soups, so even though he didn't have much of a sweet tooth, he always preferred them. And he could eat another, of course he _could_, but then there would be fewer for his angel, whom he knew would enjoy them far more than he might.

He asked, once, why Aziraphale went to all the trouble of cooking and baking in the first place, when he could just pick something up from a shop or even just miracle it into existence if he was feeling particularly uninvested. The angel only shrugged, apparently a little flustered as he muttered something about picking up new hobbies before going to check the oven (which seemed to have announced the finished cake with a very convenient ding).

Crowley decided he wouldn't bring it up again. For awhile, at least.

"You can go out, I'm good here," he would suggest in what he hoped was an offhand manner when he'd wander into the living room some mornings to see Aziraphale standing serenely in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back or around a plain old mug as he watched people pass by and life continue onwards down on the street below.

But the angel only ever turned around to greet him with a bright smile, always impeccably (if outdatedly) dressed no matter what the hour was, and making Crowley feel just a bit like a layabout. His attire those days usually consisted of some sort of pajamas and a dark plaid housecoat. Aziraphale had given it to him on his third full day in the flat, and although he had grumbled about the pattern at first, he didn't often take it off nowadays. It was soft, and warm, and he was always, always cold.

"I'm happy to wait until we can go together, my dear," Aziraphale would always reply after offering him a cheerful greeting, before giving his arm a soft squeeze or placing a quick and gentle hand on his cheek for just a moment before heading off to make a second mug of cocoa. And Crowley would have a moment alone to try and get his flushed face and rapid, stuttery heartbeat back under control.

He felt terrible, truthfully, but also extremely grateful that the angel didn't seem too interested in leaving the flat without Crowley along for the trip. A trip he wasn't very interested in taking, for the time being, because the very idea of going down those stairs to the bookshop and beyond brought a strange tightness to his chest and a cold sweat across his skin and a feeling of awful, awful dread.

It was quite unbecoming for one of his nature, so he just tried not to think about it. He spent a lot of time trying not to think about a lot of things. He could see the Bentley still parked out on the street when he too glanced out the window, and he was certain his plants wouldn't dare start to wilt while he was away, and that was good enough.

"It doesn't hurt," he would almost always manage to keep his voice steady whenever Aziraphale checked his wings, a sort of routine which happened several times a day. Crowley had seen them in the bathroom mirror, once, and had to desperately fight the urge not to bring up the soup and cookies he'd had for lunch. After that, he took the angel at his word when he said they seemed to be healing nicely. He could sneak another peek in a month or two. Or maybe six.

They did hurt, though. They always did. Not like before, but it was a constant radiating pain, moving along his back and through his wings, and a constant reminder that he wasn't quite right anymore. He usually kept them on the other plane, the continuous, minimal effort (perhaps a little concerning in and of itself, as he'd never really had to put _any_ work into doing so before) was a simple choice to make, when the other option was to have fresh and much harsher waves of pain flare up from every little bump or jostle to them.

The only time he dropped the concentration of keeping his broken wings hidden away was when Aziraphale wanted to check them. The angel's hands were always gentle, changing bandages and passing along small streams of angelic healing as he chattered away about whatever book he had been reading earlier or some gardening magazine Crowley really ought to give a chance.

Whatever would help distract him from the pain.

It never worked, but he appreciated the effort all the same.

"I'm not tired," he would - usually - succeed in stifling a yawn whenever Aziraphale asked if he'd like to go and have a nap - or just retire for the evening, depending on the time of day. It was weird, because although he had always been a fan of sleeping, he'd been doing an awful lot of it lately against his will. The achey, bone-deep exhaustion was always there, but he did his best to keep it at bay in favour of spending time with the angel.

Even if that time was just spent side-by-side on the couch, the television remote in Crowley's hands and a book in Aziraphale's. It was a comfortable quiet in the room that always seemed to lead to him waking with a start sometime later, a fluffy knitted blanket pulled up around his shoulders and a hand gently running through his hair or up and down his arm. Because regardless of whether he woke up curled into the angel's side, head on his shoulder and gripping hands ruining an otherwise perfectly ironed shirt, or sprawled out across most of the couch with his head in Aziraphale's lap, neither of them ever commented on it. On the contrary, the angel would only smile softly and turn the page of his book with one hand as Crowley settled himself and drifted off again.

Accidental, cozy afternoon naps on a couch in front of a crackling fire were always preferred over other options, anyway. They were usually safer.

"It was nothing," he would mutter eventually, once his breathing had evened out some and he'd angrily wiped away any tears that had dared to make themselves known. He didn't even know why he bothered trying to sleep in the bed, truthfully - the room was darker, especially since he always ended up there at night time, and much more quiet, and at first Aziraphale hadn't always been there either. He would have stayed in the living room or the study when Crowley finally decided he couldn't stay awake any longer and dragged himself to bed, but would always come running when the screaming started.

Not that Crowley knew that, at first. Because he was sleeping.

And dreaming.

...nightmaring?

Whatever one step above that was, because for all of his imagination and long, long time on earth, never in his life had he had dreams like those.

They were more similar to memories, although worse for the fact that he was always back in the bookshop not just remembering, but reliving all over again. It wouldn't often play out exactly how reality did several weeks prior, but the result was always the same.

The first couple of times, he would wake up to Aziraphale all but shaking him desperately, the genuine fear in the angel's eyes always managing to spark up a little guilt in him even as he tried to settle his own panicking mind.

Aziraphale would calm, slightly, when frightened yellow eyes would finally meet his own, and he gripped the demon's upper arms as tightly as he dared. "Crowley, are you...that was, I didn't...are you alright?"

His shakily adamant - albeit likely weak - attempts to reassure the angel never worked, and it only took a couple nights until Aziraphale was joining him in the bed when his body was giving him no other choice but to try and sleep.

Aziraphale didn't sleep, but he would settle under the blankets beside Crowley with comfy pajamas of his own. He talked quietly about nothing in particular or just read his book aloud, soothing background noise either way was a comforting presence until the demon finally drifted off - something much easier to do with his fingers laced together with the angel's.

It didn't solve the...issue, but it helped. And soon enough Aziraphale was usually able to wake him up before the memories got too far, got to be too much, and he'd jolt back to consciousness with only a few tears in his eyes, rather than the full on sobbing and screaming.

Small progress was still progress, he was pretty sure he'd heard that once.

"I'm fine," was his go-to, his catch-all phrase during attempts he knew were useless to appease Aziraphale and his seemingly never-ending worry and concern for Crowley. "I'm fine, angel. You need to relax."

Aziraphale would frown at him, and he would immediately feel guilty. Not enough to say anything else on the subject - _I'm cold, I'm tired, I'm weak, I'm hurting, I'm scared_ \- but enough to try and crack a thin smile, to lighten the mood however he was able. "A bubble bath, maybe? I hear that -"

"I just want to help."

And Crowley's false smile would fade away, be replaced with a softer, sadder, more genuine one.

He was a liar, but that didn't mean he always lied.

"You are," he would always reply, and dare to reach out and take his angel's hand. And it settled his heart and mind both like nothing else when he never pulled away, instead held on just as tightly.

He wasn't fine. But he might be eventually.

* * *

It always started with the sudden, overwhelming exhaustion that came with a snap of her fingers and refused to let him fight back as he was forced to the floor.

Angry red eyes and far too many teeth on an otherwise pretty, smiling human face he tried not to look at when she slowly pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them away - strange, that, since he'd never bothered to wear them since he'd taken up residence in the flat, and so he never usually had them in the dreams, either. He might have struggled harder, done something more the first few times, but he knew well what was coming by now and couldn't do much to stop the tears.

She laughed, then. "Whatever is the problem? We haven't even done anything yet."

And then he tried, like every other damned time he tried again. To save himself, to stop it from happening again, to pray for some other outcome. But just like every other time, the sharp chill of fear matched only by near overwhelming panic flooded his mind as something - as always - stopped him from shifting his wings out of the material plane.

There were fingers threading through his hair, rough and almost painfully hot as she gripped tightly and yanked his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze again. He'd seen much more than his share of hatred during his centuries in Hell, but few had ever matched the waves of it radiating off of her. Hatred, but also excitement. She enjoyed what she did, each and every time.

"You know what comes next, so let's just get to it, shall we?"

It was worse in some ways, this time. The dreams hadn't gotten to this point in awhile, usually Aziraphale would wake him up before this - _where was Aziraphale?_

It wasn't long before he was screaming once again, and his tormentor sighed contentedly, apparently satisfied for the moment with simply watching her companions take over the task of slowly stripping his wings of feathers and skin, and eventually more than that.

"I'll be honest, Crawly, I'm going to miss this," she waved the blade she was holding a little as she spoke, before making a show of picking small, black feathers out of the blood that coated it.

He tried to listen to what she was saying, but his brain and all of his nerve endings were demanding his attention elsewhere, especially when one of their knives dug just a little too deeply and his body near convulsed involuntarily. A new set of hands on his shoulders held him in place as he heard some laughter before the blades resumed their bloody work.

"...but it's probably for the best. We can't keep this up forever, much as I would like to." She was quiet after that, and he couldn't even try to keep his attention elsewhere other than on the desecration he was suffering through yet again.

Finally, finally they seem to be finished, as hands let go and they all stepped away. He didn't bother trying to move, but she grabbed his hair again and hauled him into a kneeling position with frightening ease. The sudden movement nearly caused him to pass out, but that would have been too easy of an out and a little further demonic influence kept him conscious.

She knelt in front of him, patted a blood-smeared, tear-stained cheek, and laughed when he winced sharply at the simple movement. "Listen carefully, you need to remember this part. We'll see you soon, alright?"

With that, she stood and headed for the door of the bookshop, and in an instant he was back in the actual memory rather than some distorted version. He was on the floor again, with an unfocused gaze staring at spilled chocolates and bloody feathers as they all walked to the entrance.

But he heard what she said as she left this time, clear as the bell on the door that announced their departure.

"We'll see you both again really soon."


	4. Part 2 Chapter 2

Living together was easier than Aziraphale might have expected.

The circumstances by which the situation had been brought about were less-than-ideal at best (and nothing short of horrifying at worst, which had unfortunately been the reality), but it had been a few weeks since he'd found a thoroughly destroyed bookshop with a thoroughly mangled demon, and things were, dare he say it, falling into some sort of familiar routine.

It was a little unexpected in the beginning, truthfully, but not awkward or even unwanted. Crowley just...never brought up the idea of heading home, and Aziraphale was certainly in no rush to put the thought in his head.

So they spent a lot of time in the flat, which had always been cozy enough for one but felt a little more like home with two.

Aziraphale had closed shop for the time being, had miracled clean any books he couldn't dare to part with (most of them, if he were being terribly honest) and tossed the others, along with knickknacks and furniture that had seen better, less bloody days. He could have saved it all easily enough, but he didn't want the reminders for Crowley or himself. He was sorry to see the angel mug go, but wouldn't have much enjoyed drinking from something he'd seen broken and smeared with dark blood.

He would always know the stain was there. Better to just be rid of it.

So the blinds were drawn, the door tightly locked and a ward in place that would alert them if anything of an occult (or ethereal) manner passed the threshold. He still received several calls a day, asking for specific titles or wondering when he'd be open again, but he only ever cited a family emergency and told them to check back soon.

"I hope everything's alright?" Particularly well-meaning patrons would sometimes ask before he was able to hang up the phone.

"Oh, yes, nothing at all to worry about. He'll be in tip-top shape again in no time at all, thank you so much for your concern. Do take care, now," and he would end the call before there could be anymore questions, least of all inquiries as to who 'he' was.

But Aziraphale was a bit of a liar when he said he wasn't worried for Crowley.

Just as he often was when he was talking _to_ Crowley.

"This is one of my better ones, I do hope you like it," he would say, offering the demon another of his terrible tasting creations with what he hoped was a believable smile. He knew they were awful, but maybe if he were convincing enough the taste would just...change? He didn't want to outright miracle anything Crowley would be ingesting, who knew what the side effects of that might be for a demon.

But the thing was, he _was_ a good cook (he'd learned from some of the best over the centuries, after all), and he did know how to make some great soups. But in lieu of not using any angelic alterations, he'd taken up trying human cures and supplements. They wouldn't help with everything, but Crowley did have a human body, after all, so surely it wouldn't hurt to try. So he had all sorts of things, small bottles from pharmacies and powdered vitamins from health stores and some dried herbs from the strange little shop down the street, the owner of which had assured him they would help with any common cold.

Aziraphale knew there was nothing common at all about what Crowley was dealing with, but some of his symptoms did seem similar to a human cold, so he'd agreed to try all the same. When her suggestions moved towards other solutions, such as burning some sage to purify the air, he politely declined and took his leave.

So he carried on with the awful tasting soups and hoped to see any sort of improvement at all. _Tastes awful, and it works_, he was pretty sure he'd heard that about human medicine once.

He had yet to see any of his attempts make much of a difference, though.

He tried to make up for that with baking, not altering any recipes at all and making enough that he would have been able to open a part-time bakery, should he have had any interest. And although he knew Crowley didn't often have much interest in sweets, _anyone_ would have to prefer them to the other meals he'd been providing, and the demon turned out to be no exception.

Besides, baking was a labour of love, he'd heard that one before as well, and maybe love was as good a healing agent as the medicines.

Not that he was quite ready to admit that, when Crowley once asked why he did it. He was quite certain that at this point no one upstairs would be appearing to reprimand him (or worse) for fraternizing (or worse), but old habits and all that.

"Not to worry, we'll go another time," he would say cheerfully, after suggesting they perhaps go to the park for a picnic or for a stroll around the block - anything to get Crowley out of the flat, really - and seeing what little colour was left in the demon's face quickly drain away. The sharp spike of anxiety and borderline panic that would fill the room was impossible to ignore, and he always felt terrible about it. "It's looking rather cloudy today, anyway," he would add, taking another peek out the window.

It had been cloudy every day for weeks.

Sometimes Crowley suggested he go by himself, but Aziraphale would brush that thought away with a few words and touches. He really had no intention of letting the demon out of his sight for longer than an hour or so at a time, given his current state. And since Crowley seemed largely uninterested in leaving at all - to put it kindly - they both stayed put.

Truthfully, Crowley didn't much look like one ready to go out and interact with the public, anyway. The styled hair and carefully put-together outfits hadn't made appearances in some time, and although the housecoat Aziraphale had given him in a vain attempt to keep the shivering at bay was very nice, it really wasn't his style. And even if he did decide to get dressed, the dark rings around sunken yellow eyes very much gave the impression the demon should go and sleep for a week rather than go out for a picnic lunch. Crowley usually took a lot of pride in appearances, so the very idea that he couldn't be much bothered now was in and of itself a little concerning. But he certainly didn't need anything else weighing on him for the time being, so maybe it was good that he'd been avoiding mirrors ever since he'd caught a glimpse of his wings.

And his wings...

"They're coming along nicely, my dear," he would say, almost impressed with how believable his own voice sounded. Crowley, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him, eyes closed and head in his hands, would offer some sort of noncommittal sound of agreement and not a lot else.

That was likely for the best, though, and Aziraphale was silently grateful that he never opened his eyes until his wings were hidden away again.

They _were_ better than they had been the day he'd found Crowley in the bookshop, but 'better' was also a generous and somewhat subjective word.

There weren't any further injuries, or still freely bleeding wounds, or any trace of infection, which was actually surprising because there also wasn't much in the way of healing seeming to be happening either. There was no new skin growing over exposed bone and muscle, no downy feathers coming in to cover the frame of the wings. Any broken bones he'd set the day it first happened had stayed straight and were fusing back together, but they were the only thing seeming to be making any progress.

All in all, Crowley's wings were looking rather skeletal, in all senses of the word.

Nothing Aziraphale did seemed to be helping, and that was a realisation that was weighing on him more heavily each day.

And so, as he had countless times before for many different things, he turned to books for help.

He had quite the collection of..."reference" books acquired over the centuries - some likely reliable, some probably not - theology, demonology, occultism. He was prepared to look through them all, to try and find anything that might help explain what was happening, or point him in another direction to search.

A tiny miracle altered the appearance of the books to anyone except him, and therefore helped avoid any questions he might receive inquiring after the subject of his reading.

Not that that had ever been an issue in the past, and it certainly wasn't now. Crowley, although always respectful of the angel's collections and pastime, had never been too terribly curious about the contents of his books, pretending or otherwise - and nowadays he was usually too tired to even bother feigning any interest.

And so they spent many overcast afternoons on the sofa together, Crowley inevitably falling asleep before the first episode of whatever reality show he'd settled on was finished, and Aziraphale making his way through book after book, providing whatever small comforts he could to the sleeping demon even while he searched for a more longterm solution.

They were nice (the word he'd eventually settled on, for now), those times spent cuddled up together, but he couldn't shake the feeling they might be numbered (an especially frightening thought, for an immortal being) if he didn't find the answers he was looking for soon.

Aziraphale wasn't often one for sleep, and he certainly wasn't going to start now that there seemed to be a sort of theoretical timer for Crowley, counting down to something he tried desperately not to think about. The first night Crowley shuffled off to the bedroom to try and sleep proper, Aziraphale took as his chance to get some real research done in his study.

A noble intention that didn't even last an hour, because that was also the night they both learned about the dreams. It took Aziraphale far, far too long to wake the demon up, and the haunted eyes that met his worried gaze when he finally did broke another piece of his aching heart.

"It was nothing," Crowley would say roughly, wiping tears off his cheeks with a shaky hand before Aziraphale could do it for him. "I'm fine."

But he didn't resist in the slightest when the angel wrapped him in a hug, gentle near his shoulder blades, in a desperate attempt to reassure them both.

After it happened two nights in a row he took to retiring to the bed when Crowley did. He could still read there rather than the study, and being present from the moment Crowley started whimpering in his sleep meant he could provide a little angelic intervention almost immediately, and wake him up before the dream escalated.

The demon had never gone into too much detail about what had actually happened - "Some old friends came looking for me, things got a little heated" was Crowley's understatement of the decade, if not century - but Aziraphale knew well enough it was other demons, and probably not ordinary ones either, given the injuries that were still failing to heal several weeks on.

And that was to say nothing of the nightmares.

So he kept on reading, kept on looking for answers (or even a tiny hint at this point), and did his best to not be discouraged as his pile of books to check grew smaller and smaller.

"Do you need anything?" he asked one morning, glancing over to the opposite end of the sofa, from which Crowley hadn't yet migrated towards him. He was somewhat buried under a few fluffy blankets and staring blankly towards the television, and that was only a little concerning for the fact that he hadn't actually bothered to turn it on.

Crowley turned to meet his gaze, offered a tired smile that did nothing at all to alleviate the worry. "I'm fine. Right cozy, actually."

Aziraphale tried to smile back, knew his own was probably just as empty, and stood up to go and find another book.

Crowley wasn't fine. But he might be eventually, if he just kept looking.

* * *

It was late, just past three in the morning when Aziraphale sensed just the _slightest_ disturbance to the ward around the shop. He looked up from the book in his hands, glanced at Crowley for half a moment - still sleeping peacefully - before snapping his fingers and reappearing in the darkened shop downstairs an instant later.

"Hello?" he demanded, well past any need for even false niceties as he lit up the room with a quick wave of his hand. The lights burned brightly, and the shop appeared to be empty and untouched.

But there was still a warning in his mind, like the softest of alarm bells chiming, and he knew there wasn't any chance of the ward tripping a false alarm.

"I know someone is there," he spoke loudly again, but then paused for a moment as the fact that he'd shown up for a confrontation without any sort of weapon caught up with him.

Well, no matter. He would improvise if he had to. The old letter opener on one of the desks looked particularly sharp.

He felt another shift, so quick and near unnoticeable it was akin to someone disappearing through the finest curtain of mist. Almost immediately the warning faded - and then three things happened, in near instant succession.

First, there was a heavy thud from the floor above.

Second, the screaming he'd quickly grown to dread like nothing else started.

And third, Aziraphale realised he'd been played for a sucker.

"Fuck," he was already back in the bedroom before he'd even finished the word, but he already knew he was too late.

Crowley was kneeling, hunched over on the floor - likely in the very same spot he'd fallen out of the bed - head in his hands as the continued screaming mixed with broken sobs. The back of his grey cotton shirt was intact, but it was damp with a slowly growing red stain.

Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside him, reached out a hand that was tentative only for the fact he didn't want to cause any more pain. "Crowley? It's me," he settled on touching a shoulder, but pulled his hand back quickly when the demon flinched. But he fell silent, as well, save for the unsteady breathing.

"It's me," he said again, soft but insistent, getting as close as he dared without touching him again. "Are you awake? It's Aziraphale, I -"

And Crowley looked up then, and the doubt and wavering disbelief in his stare was enough for the angel to feel heat behind his own eyes. He straightened ever-so-slightly, reached out his own hand to cautiously place cold fingertips on Aziraphale's cheek. "You're here?"

He grabbed Crowley's hand tightly with his own. "Yes, I - I'm _so_ sorry..." he cut off his own guilt-ridden apologies when Crowley all but crumpled into him, apparently satisfied that the angel was real and snaking trembling arms around him in a desperate hug. He was crying again, but it was quiet this time and Aziraphale could only return the gesture, careful to avoid bleeding shoulder blades.

"Where were you?" Crowley asked after some time, head nestled in the crook of the angel's neck and arms tightening ever so slightly, as if he was afraid Aziraphale was about to try and move away.

A needless fear, because neither Heaven nor Hell would have been able to get Aziraphale to move an inch until Crowley was ready for him to do so.

"Only downstairs. The ward sounded and I thought...well, they fooled me. I'm sorry," he said it again, as though if he said it enough times, it might actually do any good. "It won't happen again, I promise."

Crowley was silent for a time, long enough that Aziraphale started to think that - somehow - he'd fallen asleep, but then he spoke again, nearly a whisper. "She said they'll be back soon."

"We'll be ready," he wanted to sound confident, and knew he'd probably failed spectacularly.

He didn't want to lie to Crowley, but it seemed to happen regularly nonetheless.

But he was well and truly at a loss now, and maybe - if he did want to be ready, if he didn't want it to be another lie - they needed some help from something more than books.


	5. Part 2 Chapter 3

"Do you really think this is going to work?"

Crowley looked up from the mug of cocoa he had yet to touch sitting in front of him. Aziraphale was watching him intently from the other side of the table, and his question was tinged with the worry that hadn't left his voice since the...incident...three days prior.

Three long, long days. He didn't dare try to sleep again, had kept himself awake with caffeine and willpower - and besides, he didn't want to be caught off guard when she showed up. But that ever growing exhaustion wasn't doing much for his general wellbeing, nor was the fact that absolutely nothing had happened since then anyway.

The waiting was almost worse.

Jumping at every unexpected sound, despite the fact Aziraphale's ward was well intact and hadn't given any warning since that night. Watching every person pass by on the street below, checking for familiar, dreaded faces. Spending every moment wondering when she was going to turn up.

The waiting probably _was_ worse.

But it had given them time to plan, sort of, and today was the day for that plan to begin rolling.

Such as it was.

"What choice do we have?" Crowley was leaning over the table, chin resting in his hands as he looked back to his untouched drink.

It had been sitting there for over an hour (exactly as long as the angel and demon had also been sitting there, as a matter of fact), and should have gone cold some time ago. But he could still see steam rising gently from the surface, and finally picked it up with only the slightest twinge of guilt.

It was the least he could do, if someone had bothered to make sure it stayed warm.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, drumming his fingers on his mug. Crowley already knew what he wanted to say and wondered if he would actually do it again.

Turned out, he would.

"I know what you said, but Adam might -"

"Be a _child_. Probably not even much of a remarkable one, by now." He wasn't actually sure how long any Antichrist-related powers might stick around with the kid, but either way, he had no intention of involving anyone more than necessary in his problems. Especially children. "He's retired, angel. Leave him be."

He watched Aziraphale's face fall ever so slightly, but he wouldn't be backing down on this one. He'd already agreed to - and built upon - the angel's second plan anyway, which _still_ included people he'd really rather not have involved.

"I know...but if he could help, then I think it couldn't hurt to ask?"

Funny choice of words. What didn't hurt these days? The dull, constant pain emanating from his wings had been amplified ever since the last nightmare, to the point of near any movement at all causing some kind of discomfort. Walking, talking, _breathing_ \- the last one was normally a choice anyway, but he thought it best to give his body and it's struggling heartbeat whatever help he could. Crowley slowly straightened up as much as he could - a bit of a hunch gave his shoulder blades a bit of relief - and gave his shoulders an experimental roll. He didn't bother to hide his wince. So much for things improving now.

"Let's just see how this goes first, alright?"

Aziraphale sighed and pursed his lips, still tapping his mug tunelessly. "Alright," he paused for a moment. "Although I'm not so sure about this one, either."

Crowley shared the sentiment, though he didn't voice as much. "What choice do we have?" he said again. "We can't learn anything, never mind summon someone if we don't even have a name."

"And you're sure he's actually going to tell us?"

_Nope._ "Of course. I can be very persuasive," he gave the angel a thin smile as they both heard a knock on the door of the bookshop. Maybe not something they would normally notice, being on the second floor, but they had been expecting it.

"Back in a jiffy," Aziraphale gave him one last, long look before leaving to answer the door.

And for the first time in days, Crowley was alone in the flat.

It wouldn't be for longer than a minute, but he could already feel cold sweat on the back of his neck. He glanced down at his watch - it was also the first day in weeks he'd gotten dressed - and managed to stay sitting for an entire twenty four seconds before he was on his feet and heading towards the stairs. There was nothing wrong, of course, but what if -

He nearly collided with Aziraphale rounding the corner in the hallway, and the angel grabbed his upper arms to steady them both. "Oh, Anthony! How kind of you to come greet our guests. You remember Ms. Device?"

"Book Girl! I'd never forget." He dropped his sunglasses over his eyes before reaching out to take Anathema's hand.

She gave him a puzzled look, only shaking his hand once before simply holding on, and he wasn't sure if he was supposed to let go or not. "Anthony?" she said finally, the curiosity shifting ever so slightly to suspicion.

"Er...yes?"

"We've done our research since the airbase," a new voice chimed in, and Crowley glanced over her shoulder to see the young man who had spoken. "You don't need to put on a front for us. I've gotta hand it to you, though, an antique book dealer interested in the occult is a pretty good one."

"Ah, yes, well, we weren't actually sure how much you all remembered about that day," Aziraphale had the good graces to look a bit embarrassed. Crowley couldn't be bothered.

"Not as much as I would like, but enough," Anathema finally dropped her intense stare and Crowley's hand both, and he would never know he had just passed an aura-based test of character. Her expression changed to one of deep sympathy. "You're very sick."

Crowley opened his mouth to stutter out some reply, but Aziraphale beat him to it. "Why don't we all go sit down?" he gave them all a bright, forced smile before gesturing them down the hall.

"I don't actually know your name," Crowley said instead to the back of the man's head as he followed them towards the living room. "Book Girl's Boyfriend?"

"Oh, right, it's Newton Pulsifer," Apparently-Newton-Pulsifer replied, and he probably would have turned around to shake Crowley's hand if not for the large cardboard box he was carrying. "I was working with Sergeant Shadwell, for a couple days."

"Ah. Still witch-finding, then?"

"Quite the opposite." He gave the box a little jostle to emphasize his point. "More like a witch-in-training, really."

"You've got the right teacher for it."

"Come in, come in, would anyone like refreshments? Tea, cocoa? I've got some macarons, made fresh this morning!" Aziraphale ushered them into the living room before rattling off a few more baked treats for their guests to choose from, wringing his hands all the while.

Crowley placed a hand over his in an attempt to still them.

"The tea can wait," Anathema said kindly, already knelt on the floor and opening the box Newt had set beside her. "Why don't you explain what's going on again?"

Aziraphale rambled on, and Crowley didn't bother trying to rein him in at any point, since he mostly stayed on track. To be truthful he was only half-listening anyway, instead watching with subdued interest as Anathema carefully unpacked the contents of the box. Candles, chalk, salt...the usual. And a large, bulky shopping bag from Tesco.

"You got my shopping requests?" he asked once there was a lull in Aziraphale's chatter.

"Sure," Newt opened the bag and peered inside. "Your...weapons of choice? And the energy drinks," he reached into the bag and pulled out a can before passing it into Crowley's outstretched hand. "Heard that stuff gives you wings."

"If only it were that easy."

"Can I see your back?" Anathema asked him, Aziraphale's briefing apparently finished.

Crowley gave her a tired stare before shrugging slightly and pulling his shirt over his head. He couldn't stop the hiss of pain brought on by the fabric dragging over his back, but no one said a thing.

"Charming, isn't it?" he said with mock cheer as he turned away from her.

He'd seen it already, that morning. He still wasn't willing to look at his wings, frankly his back was worse enough. The bloody wounds in his shoulder blades brought on by the last nightmare weren't exactly healed, but instead covered by shiny new skin that looked as if it had been burned. There were dark tendrils snaking out from them under his skin, spiderwebbing and creating an almost frostlike pattern creeping down his back and up over his shoulders. They were achey, and burned in a freezing sort of way , and he was glad it seemed to be spreading slowly. He was in no rush to find out what might happen when they reached something a human body generally considered essential for survival.

Anathema was staring at the patterns closely, but she didn't touch them - a fact for which Crowley was infinitely grateful. "And...your wings?"

He glanced at Aziraphale for confirmation, and the angel only shook his head slightly. "Not much different. I'd rather not bring them out."

"Sure, of course," Anathema was already back to her spot on the floor, pulling a few more things out of the box.

Crowley took that as his cue to gingerly pull his shirt back over his head. He sat down on the sofa and took up his usual post of leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His usual lounging wasn't really an option at this point. Aziraphale took a seat beside him, reaching over to grasp one of his hands tightly. His hand was warm, very warm, but maybe that was only because Crowley's always felt frozen.

"There isn't a lot I can do outright, I'm afraid," she said after another minute, pulling out an old medallion on a thin chain. "Like this: repels demons when it's being worn, so it probably won't be great for a demon to wear it."

"Not really my style anyway," Crowley offered nonchalantly, and Aziraphale gave the softest of scoffs.

"Blessings would also usually be helpful, but again, maybe not for you."

"Probably not," Crowley agreed easily, not at all conveying his disappointment in the direction this conversation was heading, despite the fact he had been quite sure this was exactly how it would play out.

"You could destroy the one who did this to you," Newt supplied, seemingly eager to share any knowledge he'd attained in the last weeks. "That's the best way to remove curses and the like."

Anathema gave him the slightest of exasperated looks, and he shrugged sheepishly. "He's right," she said after a moment. "It's the best way to get results, but certainly not the safest. I was only going to suggest it as a last resort."

"We figured as much," Aziraphale sighed deeply, not nearly as good as Crowley at hiding his disappointment. "I had just hoped that maybe..."

"I know. I'm sorry." And the thing was, Anathema did sound sorry, an emotion Crowley wasn't sure was entirely warranted. "I think she's drawing energy from you, which is the reason for your symptoms. There are probably others as well, that's what would help make her so powerful."

Crowley frowned in thought, considering the entourage that always seemed to accompany her. "Could be. They seem a lot more willing than me, though."

"Just another variable that makes her stronger. Your resistance is likely what's making it worse for you."

"So...if we eliminate some of her subordinates first, she'll become weaker as well?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was slightly shocked at the determination in his tone.

"If my theory is correct, yes."

"Right, right..." Aziraphale seemed lost in thought for a moment before abruptly changing topics. "I hope it's not too much to ask that you could do us that other favour?"

"Of course," Anathema was already gesturing to Newt to help her roll up the throw carpet, so she could begin marking the floor with chalk.

"Thank you," he gave Crowley's hand a small squeeze before standing up. "I'll go and get the Water."

Newt waited for him to leave before glancing at Crowley. "He seems a touch more worked up about all this than you are."

"Heart on his sleeve, that one." Usually.

"So why can't you do this yourselves?" Newt asked instead, watching Anathema draw her symbols onto the floor with no small amount of unease clear on his face. "Seems weird angels and demons wouldn't be able to summon one another."

"We can." Crowley was in no mood to be having this conversation with a human he barely knew, but he also felt he owed it to them, considering the favour they were doing - and the amount of potential danger they were putting themselves in for near-strangers. Witnessing the almost-Apocalypse in the same place had a way of bringing people together, apparently. "But we can usually tell when one of us is the one doing the summoning ahead of time. We want this one to be a surprise, and humans always make it a surprise."

"Huh...interesting," Newt said eventually, seemingly unsure whether that was something he actually found interesting or not. "I've never done this before."

"Really? Couldn't tell."

"And we're contacting this other guy because...?"

"Can't summon anyone without a name. Who better to ask than another high-ranking demon?"

Aziraphale returned with a small, clear bottle, and left it on the table on the opposite side of the room before taking his place beside Crowley again.

"You seem remarkably at ease with all of this, considering..." he said after awhile, watching Anathema finish with the chalk and Newt start to place out candles at her word.

"Like I said, we remember some things," she stood up and brushed off her skirt. "And this isn't my first summoning."

"Might be your most unpleasant one, though. He's a real prick." Crowley pulled himself to his feet - relying a little more heavily on both Aziraphale and the arm of the couch than he might have liked - before grabbing the shopping bag and pulling out the large water guns he'd requested. "We definitely need these, though." He aimed a gun at each of them in turn, ignoring the pain that the movement sent radiating across his back and down his arms. And for the first time in days, he felt the slightest trace of a genuine grin on his face.

"This is going to be great."


	6. Part 2 Chapter 4

There were many words Aziraphale might consider using to try and describe what they were about to do, and "great" certainly wasn't one of them.

He glanced at the encircled symbols on the floor, drawn with precision and a heavy hand to prevent any possibility of a break in the lines. Professionally done, but that was only mildly comforting.

There were candles burning lowly at each vertex on the circle, and Newt was almost finished pouring a line of salt around the sigil. Not entirely as effective as humans would like to believe, but it was still an extra precaution worth taking.

He was immensely worried for the two humans in the room, never mind the fact he was the one who had asked them to do this.

"Perhaps it might be better for you to leave as soon as the summoning is complete?" he had to try, at least.

Newt actually seemed quite willing to take him up on the offer, but Anathema shook her head on behalf of them both. "We'll stay. We might be able to help."

"Damn right. Here: take this, fill it up, get it blessed," Crowley sounded near gleeful as he handed Newt one of the large water guns, and Aziraphale turned his attention to the only person in the room - in the world - he was more anxious for than the humans.

Despite the bravado that did seem to be more genuine now than it had in weeks, Crowley was looking awful - sagging shoulders, trembling hands, a slight sheen of sweat across a sickly pale face despite the fact Aziraphale knew his skin was ice cold. He couldn't see the demon's eyes hidden behind dark lenses, and desperately wished he didn't feel the need for them. It would be so much easier to know how he was really doing without them.

But, that was probably the exact reason he was wearing them, wasn't it?

Regardless, Aziraphale would have much preferred Crowley go and rest rather than prepare to summon one of his old colleagues.

And again, he had to try.

"Crowley, dear," he placed a gentle hand on Crowley's arm to stop him from crossing the small room and hand the next gun to Anathema. She, at least, seemed a little relieved at the interception. "We can handle this ourselves. You don't need to be here, if you'd prefer to -"

"Are you kidding, angel?" Crowley nearly laughed - a sound Aziraphale had been missing desperately, although he wasn't exactly thrilled with the circumstances by which it had been brought about. "This is it! We're going to do something, this is...this is all going to stop."

Newt and Anathema may have missed the slight tremor running through his voice by the end of his sentence, but to Aziraphale he might as well have been crying on the floor of his bedroom again.

"Alright, alright..." he dropped his hand back to his side, and Crowley held the gun out to Anathema expectantly.

"It's protection if nothing else, Book Girl," he added, when she gave him a stare of mild incredulity. "Get Aziraphale to bless it."

She sighed and crossed the room to take it from him. "You're probably right."

Speaking of protection...

"Do you think we should, you know..." Aziraphale first pointed to Crowley, then himself, back and forth a couple of times. "Switch again? Just in case."

Crowley opened his mouth as if he were about to reply, then paused a moment and closed it again. "No, I don't think so," he said after a moment. "We'll be fine."

There was frustration quickly welling up to join the knot of worry in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach. Crowley could pretend all he liked that he was fine, but he wasn't fooling anyone - least of all the angel. It was one thing to pretend, but did he have to be quite so blasé in regards to his own safety?

"I don't think it would hurt to -"

"That's where you're wrong, though, isn't it?" Crowley suddenly snapped, turning to face Aziraphale, although his body language in no way reflected the edge his voice had suddenly taken on. Nevertheless, the two humans quickly excused themselves to go and find a tap to fill their assigned weapons.

"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale certainly hadn't been expecting that reaction.

Crowley already looked sheepish, and he pulled his glasses off to run a hand over his face. "No, I'm sorry, angel. It's just...I'll handle this, okay?"

Aziraphale moved forwards to close the short distance between them, placed a gentle hand on each side of Crowley's face and took advantage of the opportunity for eye contact without a darkened barrier between them.

"I want to help you," he said firmly, but made every effort to ensure the worry and sincerity and care he was feeling came across in his words as well. He'd already realised why Crowley had reacted as he did, after his last comment, but it didn't change anything. "Perhaps some reprieve in another body would do you some good?"

And Crowley had maintained that sought-after eye contact, up until then. At those words he dropped his gaze, sighed heavily and his body seemed to wilt just a little more. "I wouldn't ask you to take this on, Aziraphale. I couldn't."

"You don't need to ask. I'm already offering."

Crowley placed a hand over one of the angel's still cupping his cheek, and blinked fiercely a couple of times before forcing a small, tired grin back onto his face and meeting Aziraphale's earnest gaze once again. "No, you should be at your best for this, just in case. I'm fine."

But all Aziraphale could see was was the tremble in an already-wavering smile, the tremors in an icy hand still covering his own. And pain, and fear, and trepidation reflected in entirely yellow eyes that seemed almost hesitant to meet his own now. All of those things, yes, but he also saw the smallest sliver of something else, and that was what hurt the most.

Hope. He saw hope in Crowley's eyes, and he wanted to weep at the thought that it had been missing for so long.

And to think he'd wanted to take that away from him, send him off and let others lead the charge in something that affected no one more than him.

"Alright, love, alright," he wouldn't have even noticed his choice of words if Crowley's eyes hadn't gone wide. Aziraphale was, suddenly, intensely aware of how close they were standing together. Just a couple inches apart, really. He was about to keep speaking, to begin rambling until some sort of explanation manifested itself from his jumbled words, but in the same moment he reconsidered.

In for a penny...

Aziraphale closed the small gap between them, until there wasn't one at all as he pressed a small kiss to Crowley's frozen lips. It was short and gentle and he pulled away almost as quickly as he'd gone in, and the demon didn't even have time to react. It had been nothing, really, a barely-there brush of lips - but it was exhilarating, and it was _right_, and it was everything.

"We'll do this together, yes?"

"Y-yes," Crowley finally seemed to find his voice again, hoarse though it was.

Aziraphale gave him a warm smile, and finally withdrew his hands. "Oh look, sweetheart. At last, a little colour in your cheeks."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later - after a quick blessing of a couple water guns (somehow not the strangest thing he'd ever blessed, but still up there), and a few extra minutes for Crowley to compose himself in the other room, four of them were once again standing beside a circle of chalk and lowly flickering candles.

"Right, make the call, and then maybe just step back a little," Crowley instructed, sounding not unlike a commander directing his troops.

If the commander were one to wear Valentino shades and his troops were only armed with supermarket Holy Water guns, anyway.

"'Step back a little', as if I'd need the reminder," Newt mumbled, holding his gun close to him like some sort of lifeline.

But, Aziraphale supposed, if worst came to worst it might be exactly that.

Anathema was far more composed, her own gun leaning against the couch, and she simply nodded and approached the circle. She held an old, weather-beaten book in her hands, and began to read from it in a low voice. Newt kept glancing between her and the circle nervously.

"Would you like to take the lead on this, or shall I?" Aziraphale asked, from where he and Crowley were standing several feet behind Anathema.

"I've got it," Crowley did sound confident, and as always Aziraphale was impressed with the way he always seemed ready and willing to stand up to his fellow kind.

Anathema finished the final line in the passage of the book and smoke began to rise from the chalk ring. She backed up, just in time for the ring to burst into a high pillar of flame. To his credit, Newt only jumped a little, and he held his gun firmly when Anathema placed a comforting hand on his arm as she took her place beside him. Aziraphale had only witnessed this sort of demon summoning a few times throughout the centuries, but Crowley looked near positively bored and so he assumed everything was happening correctly.

"Good luck," he whispered, hands clasped together tightly as the fire began to die down. Somehow, it hadn't singed the roof at all. Crowley gave him a thumbs up as he stepped forward, before straightening his back as much as he could and sliding his hands into his pockets.

The fire went out completely, although it took a few more moments for the smoke to clear. It went straight up, as though in some sort of funnel, before disappearing as it touched the roof as though it were going right through it.

And once it did clear, Aziraphale was somewhat surprised to see a demon he recognized - he didn't know many, after all. But this one was dreadful, with filthy blond hair and a face covered in sores, wearing a dirty trench-coat and an expression so filled with hatred it might just discorporate a lesser demon on the spot.

So he was proud that Crowley was nothing of the sort.

"Hey, Hastur, hello. So glad you could make it," Crowley said easily, very much in the tone of someone who was greeting a casual friend.

"Crowley," the other demon spit out by way of greeting, frown deepening even further as he glanced around the room to see Aziraphale and the two humans. "What the devil are you playing at?"

"We've just got a few questions, that's all. A few questions and then you'll be on your unmerry way, pinky promise," Crowley held up a hand to imitate the gesture. "Like, figuratively, of course. Because you're in an inescapable sigil, and I'm not, so I won't be sticking my hand in there. You understand."

"Why would I tell _you_ anything?" Hastur turned black eyes back to Crowley.

"What part of 'inescapable sigil' do you not understand?" Crowley shrugged, then continued when Hastur didn't reply. "We just need a name, maybe a few, and then you can go."

And there was the part that still unsettled Aziraphale. While Crowley had insisted it would cause more problems to kill a high-ranking demon than to just make a deal and let them go, the angel still wasn't entirely convinced. Especially now that he saw who they were dealing with - although he had backed down quickly enough when told to do so, Hastur had still been the only one at the trial who was still willing to try and destroy Crowley.

"...and in that case..." Crowley was still talking, and Aziraphale turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "My friends here would douse you with so much Holy Water you wouldn't even have time to scream," he gestured behind him, towards Newt who raised the gun dutifully, and Anathema who seemed more intrigued by the entire interaction than anything else, but she still nodded and picked up her own weapon. "Or maybe you would. Ligur certainly did. Sounds a little humiliating either way though, doesn't it?" Crowley whistled lowly. "Not a great way to go."

Hastur regarded the other demon silently for a long moment, noticeably unnerved now despite the fact his glower didn't fade in the least. "Ask your questions."

"We're looking for another demon. Masquerades around as a human woman. Red eyes, an awful lot of teeth, a penchant for knives," Crowley may as well have been discussing the weather for all the nonchalance in his voice, and once again Aziraphale felt a swell of pride in his chest. Crowley was doing well, very well, he'd had no need to worry about -

The dark chuckle from the demon in the circle stops his thoughts in their tracks. "Are you serious, Crowley?"

"Yes?" Crowley's voice had lost the slightest trace of confidence, as that hadn't been the reaction any of them were expecting. Newt hefted his gun a little higher, and Anathema raised hers in both hands for the first time since the summoning had started.

Hastur glanced at the four of them again, one at a time, with renewed interest. "Who'd she get this time?"

"Hey - I'm the one asking questions, here. So -"

"It was you, wasn't it?" Hastur smiled, seemed genuinely delighted as he considered the idea. "The angel looks fine, and the humans would be dead already. So what is it? You think you're going to stop her? Save yourself?"

"Name, Hastur," Crowley hissed, any appearance of goodwill evaporated like the smoke through the ceiling.

Hastur met his gaze evenly, and stayed quiet. Aziraphale was about to step forward with a few choice words, but someone else beat him to it.

"Listen, you, uh, sir," Newt moved up next to Crowley, aimed his gun level with Hastur's chest. "You'd best answer him, because I _will_ shoot you."

"Now, now," Aziraphale stepped between the two of them in what he hoped only looked like a show of solidarity, rather than making a little more space and a barrier between Crowley and the potentially leaky gun full of Holy Water. He didn't trust the structural integrity of supermarket toys at all. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He can't help us if he's completely obliterated from existence, now can he? However..." he turned to Hastur, schooled his face into a mix of well-meaning intent and unconcerned apathy and glanced down at the sigil pointedly. "You aren't going anywhere until you do. And we can wait for an awfully long time."

"You can, maybe," Hastur was still grinning as he turned back to Crowley. "But he can't."

"You might be surprised," Crowley's glare was now on par with what the other demon's had been on his arrival.

"No need to get worked up," Hastur suddenly raised his hands in a gesture of lazy surrender, although the frightening gleeful smile didn't disappear. "I'll tell you. Not that it will help, but she's a bit of a...rogue agent. Killing other demons...it's fine that it's _you_ this time, but you aren't the first."

"Just like that?" Aziraphale didn't trust the sudden change of heart for an instant, and judging from the expressions of his companions they all felt quite the same.

Hastur shrugged and lowered his hands. "It doesn't matter. You manage to kill her somehow, or she kills you. Either way, Hell wins."

"Let's hear it then," Crowley crossed his arms, perhaps to try and hide the fact he was beginning to sway the slightest amount. Aziraphale placed a hand on his elbow to steady him, but didn't look away from the other demon.

"I believe she goes by Amabilis, these days."

There was no suggestion of a lie in his voice, but Aziraphale still scoffed. "Is that some kind of joke?"

"I don't like jokes."

"And the others? Her friends?" Crowley asked impatiently.

Hastur supplied four more names without fuss or fanfare. Aziraphale committed them all to memory even though he could hear Anathema scribbling quickly in a notebook behind them.

"Right. If we find out you're lying, you'll end up right back here. And next time, Aziraphale won't stop our gung-ho little human, here," Crowley said, and Newt raised the gun a little higher in response.

"Of course, Crowley," Hastur smiled and nodded placatingly - or perhaps it would have been, if it were anyone else. "Now, the circle?"

"As far as any of us are concerned, this never happened," Crowley added as an apparent afterthought. "Mutually beneficial to us both, wouldn't you say?"

"And we won't be seeing you again, I hope?" Aziraphale knew the threat behind his words wasn't very well concealed, but then again, he certainly hadn't been trying to do so. He stepped forward to break the line with the tip of his shoe, moving slowly enough that Newt and Anathema had plenty of time to aim their weapons.

Hastur nodded slowly, and Aziraphale, grudgingly, smudged away a small section of the circle. He stepped away again, back beside Crowley, but nothing in the room changed and Hastur didn't move.

"You? Unlikely. Him? Definitely not," he directed his gaze towards Crowley one last time. "I can't wait to tell everyone you'll finally be dead within the month."

Crowley just raised an eyebrow before opening his mouth to retort - Heaven forbid he didn't get the last word - but he never got the chance. Hastur raised a hand in what Aziraphale thought was a rather mocking farewell, and Crowley collapsed like a puppet with cut strings even as the other demon dissolved into a pile of writhing maggots, disappearing into the floorboards and another plane both. Aziraphale barely had time to catch Crowley, lowering him to the floor as both the temperature and the light sources in the room started to drop.

"What the - what the fucking _fuck_ was that?!" Newt all but shrieked, water gun now held loosely by his side and eyes locked on the now vacant sigil. Anathema hurriedly tossed her own gun back towards the couch in favour of placing an amulet over his head.

"Should've killed him, should've killed him, should've _destroyed_ him..." Aziraphale muttered frantically, lightly slapping Crowley's cheek in an attempt he knew was likely useless. He paused for half a moment, gave Crowley one last glance before turning towards the two humans. Beside them, the candles around the circle were slowly going out, one by one. The day outside was bright with midday light, though none of it seemed to be penetrating the windows, and the room was already almost completely dark. "You both need to leave, now."

"But -"

"No, you've already done more than enough," he was already on his feet, all but pushing them through the doorway and down the hall, which was also quickly being drained of light. He snapped his fingers, and a glowing orb appeared to hover over their heads. "Get outside, get away from here, and _don't_ take those medallions off."

"We might be able to help -"

"You can't, because I don't know what's happening! Now, please, leave. It will be easier without you to worry about too."

Anathema, thankfully, only nodded and pushed a piece of torn notebook paper into his hand. "Good luck."

Aziraphale shoved the paper into his pocket, watched them both disappear down the hallway for only a moment before turning back towards the living room.

It was completely dark. He snapped his fingers again and another orb appeared in the centre of the room, light already beginning to fade as it faintly lit up the room.

To reveal no one.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale rushed back to the spot where he'd left the demon, now vacant. The room was freezing, he would have been able to see his breath if he hadn't forgotten to actually breathe when he'd found the room empty. "Crowley?!"

He spun back around when a dull thud shook the framed photos back near the entrance of the room, and a third ball of light illuminated the red hair of a figure crumpled against the wall. Aziraphale was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees and moving to touch him carefully.

But his panic only increased tenfold when his hands went straight through the demon.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale tried again, voice desperate and hands frantic, as they passed through his shoulder, his chest, his face. "Crowley, love, can you hear me?!"

It seemed that no, he could not, as he didn't react to the angel at all, but it was with some tiny amount of relief that Aziraphale noticed he was at least conscious now. He coughed, slightly, and didn't bother to raise a hand and wipe away the small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. The dark, weblike patterns under his skin were beginning to creep up his neck from under the collar of his shirt.

"Crowley, listen, please try to listen, I don't know what happened but we -" he stopped when Crowley's head suddenly snapped up, hope flooding through him as he switched sentences. "Can you hear me?"

But that hope drained away again just as quickly when he realised Crowley wasn't looking at him at all. Rather, he was looking _through_ him, towards something behind him, fear the likes of which Aziraphale hadn't seen in six thousand years reflected in shining yellow eyes.

He turned to see a figure, lowly illuminated by the orb that hadn't quite yet gone out. Someone he'd never met before, but felt he knew all the same.

Red eyes, an awful lot of teeth, a penchant for knives, probably, given the wicked looking blade held loosely in her hand.

Crowley shrank further back against the wall beside him, and she grinned darkly.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"


	7. Part 2 Chapter 5

The last thing Crowley remembered thinking, briefly, as he watched Hastur raise a hand to both signal his departure and as a sort of summoning of his own, was that they had probably fucked up.

Not that they'd had much of a choice, really - killing Hastur would have caused a lot more problems for all of them, rather than only one rather specific problem for Crowley.

Because he wasn't stupid, and he knew there would be a more-than-reasonable chance that the other demon wouldn't simply leave without a little retribution of his own.

He just hadn't expected the effects to be quite so...immediate.

Physically.

Certainly hadn't expected his body to just...give up, quite like that.

Extremely inconvenient, really.

The first thing Crowley thought when he came to again, slumped against a wall, freezing air and a slight cough agitating his already aching lungs, was that they had _definitely_ fucked up.

The room was pitch black, unnaturally so, because even he couldn't see a thing through the darkness. But he could sense he was alone, for the moment, and although it was terrifying not knowing where Aziraphale and the humans were, he knew anywhere else would be better when he heard the voice that had literally been haunting his dreams seconds later.

Crowley pressed himself back a little further into the wall, ignored the searing protest in his back as he did so, but stared into the darkness as the expected figure stepped out of it.

And Amabilis - as that was her name, apparently, and in countless other scenarios he would have found the irony darkly amusing - smiled her terribly familiar smile. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

He felt the panic well up as it always did, the fear, the dread, the tears behind his eyes and the painful beating of his unsteady heart, and didn't answer immediately.

They were alone, wherever they were, and he would stall and keep it that way as long as he could.

"Where are we?" he asked, for a lack of thinking of anything better in the moment, and he hated the way his voice wavered.

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?" The smile grew impossibly wider. "That's interesting."

It wasn't, but he didn't dwell on that. Instead, he pressed a shaking hand to the wall and slowly pushed himself to his feet. She watched him and didn't say a thing, nor did she interrupt in any way, just as he had assumed would happen.

She liked a little defiance, a little bit of a fight, he'd learned that the hard way the first time. So he ignored every part of him that was screaming not to do so, and stood upright as much as he dared.

Didn't take his hand off the wall, though.

"So is this just another social call, then?"

"Crawly, you astound me," she did sound just short of delighted, tightened her grip on the knife in her hand ever so slightly. "I couldn't just ignore the call Hastur sent out. He must _really_ hate you." She paused then, turned contemplative. "He hates me too."

"Can't imagine why."

"We could work together, you know. This could stop, you could heal. We hate the same demons, we could take the same demons out."

He let out a short laugh of disbelief, he couldn't stop it, and he ignored the dark blood that splattered into his free hand when it turned into a cough. No, they couldn't. He wasn't about to say as much, would instead ask whatever other mindless questions presented themselves in his head in order to waste more time, but she smiled knowingly.

As if he had already spoken aloud.

"No, we couldn't," she agreed, and snapped her fingers.

The room and it's pure darkness didn't change, didn't become a bookshop, but instantly Crowley found himself back on the floor, knelt over, mangled wings folded crookedly against his back.

He took a moment to fight back the waves of nausea brought about by the displacement, then straightened his back again to meet her fascinated stare. Her friends were present now as well, but they were still the only things he could see in that black hole of a room.

"How did you do that?" The idea of her knowing his thoughts was quite possibly the most terrifying revelation yet.

Amabilis didn't answer outright. "You get weaker, I get stronger. When you die, I'll have to find someone to replace you." She seemed almost a little forlorn at the idea. "I'll be honest, I had hoped you'd last a little longer."

He struggled to keep his thoughts focused strictly on the here and now, not at all interested in giving her any more insight into his head. "Well, that's me. Never quite living up to anyone's expectations."

"I wanted to kill the angel first, so you could watch," she continued, and her smile seemed to directly coincide with the fresh wave of panic that seized him at the words, although he had managed to keep his expression impassive. "But I fear you won't make it that long. We'll make do," she spoke the last words as she glanced slightly to his right, started intently at the empty air beside him for a moment before stepping forward, finally close enough to touch him. He couldn't maintain the eye contact without craning his head upwards, so he dropped it instead. It was disconcerting, staring down past his hands into what looked like endless darkness, and a little bit familiar.

He waited for the pain, the beginning of a fresh round of torment, and it didn't arrive in any way he expected when he felt her hand, hot but strangely gentle, on the back of his neck. "This power of yours is one Hell of a thing, I'm going to miss it. You can just think of something, and have it happen? Like, maybe I think this human form of yours has grown old..."

The shifting of skin to scales was a familiar sensation under her fingertips, but it had a wicked edge to it when not happening by his own choice. He tried to pull away, wasn't surprised when he found he couldn't.

"Or maybe I think earthly bodies in general aren't needed."

The scales spreading across his skin stopped, as did his heart and his lungs. Not normally a deal-breaker, but in his current state he wasn't so sure. The near instant wave of dizziness and fading vision definitely wasn't the norm, anyway.

"Or, maybe..." she paused, waited until he was sure he was only seconds from blacking out, or worse. "Maybe I think Aziraphale is dead."

Crowley's body stuttered back to life, but he wished it hadn't. His first gasp of air was strangled on a cry he couldn't stop as unwanted images flooded his mind.

Aziraphale, broken body crumpled in a heap on the ground. Clothes shredded and covered in golden blood, body littered with grisly wounds. Wings once white and full and vibrant now more reminiscent of his own, broken and stripped and any remaining feathers damaged and stained a darkened gold. And blue eyes, empty and unseeing but still locked with his own, echoing with terror Crowley understood all too well.

His nails snapped under the grip he had on a floor he couldn't see, wouldn't have been able to see even if there was light because all he could see was his angel dead, dead, dead.

Amabilis pulled her hand away to gesture towards the other demons, but he barely noticed. "Come on, then."

He was only vaguely aware of them at all, as they pulled stiff wings out from against his back to stretch across the ground. He didn't react at all to blades meeting his skin, nor muscle and bones beneath that. And he didn't hear the exasperated sigh as he barely flinched when a particular knife went straight through all three with extraordinary ease to pin his wing to the invisible floor.

"You're taking this even harder than I thought you would. He's not dead yet, alright? Now let us have some fun."

The shift in knowledge was jarring, the images burned into the forefront of his thoughts not disappearing, but fading as though they were only a distant memory of something that might have happened. But they weren't reality. They never had been.

Reality was painful in a very different way.

The mental anguish melted away to be instantly replaced by the physical sort, as his mind gave the blade impaled through his wing very sharp and sudden attention. He instinctively reached for it and didn't have the strength to resist when a hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, slamming it back to the ground instead. He could only watched as another knife was swiftly shoved through his hand, effectively and gruesomely fastening it in place. The pain was strangely delayed, but relatively manageable even when it caught up compared to the abuse his wings were suffering.

"Better. Now, do cooperate and don't move." One more hand and one more knife met each other in short and bloody order and Crowley found himself effectively immobile on his hands and knees, pinned to the floor by three points.

It was fine though, he thought hazily, watching blood well up and run down his hands rather sluggishly. It was fine, because Aziraphale wasn't dead, and Aziraphale wasn't there.

He didn't understand why Amabilis laughed.

"Have you ever witnessed a wing amputation, Crawly?" she asked sometime later, it might have been minutes or it might have been hours. Blood from his back and his wings had started to spread across the ground, enough to meet that which had run off his hands already. He stared at it with detached interest and didn't answer. "Nasty stuff, so I've heard, but I've always wanted to try it!" He heard shuffling behind him, out of eyesight, and then felt a hand on the base of his neck again. "I'm feeling a little bit generous, so have some anesthesia. Of a sort."

The instant burning sensation, starting from her point of contact and tracing along every dark vein under his skin, across his back and shoulders and down his arms, was enough of a shock that his body reactively jerked. The movement caused the blades through his hands to cause more damage, and fresh blood began flowing from the jagged wounds.

"Got a bit overzealous there. But don't worry, now that your back hurts so much more, you won't even notice when your wings are gone!"

He wondered, then, how long it might take to die if he stopped breathing of his own accord this time.

"Longer than you'd like." Amabilis walked back around into his line of sight, crouched down in front of him and forced him to raise his head by way of a blade under his chin. "Now, would you prefer to lose your eyes before or after you lose the wings?" She adjusted the placement of her knife, instead rested it at the corner of his left eye, the pressure only enough to cause the slightest flow of blood to begin trickling.

She knew his emotions, and she knew his thoughts, and so he didn't know the point in answering and only met her gaze with an unblinking stare. She pressed harder. "Wouldn't I be doing you a favour? You do hate them, after all. And you might appreciate not being able to see what the future's going to bring."

His thoughts were blurry, hard to focus on. That might be true, about the future. But there were plenty of things he did like seeing, would be sad not to see again, snake eyes be damned. Like the view of a grey London skyline from the window of his flat, and the plants growing vibrantly inside of it, and the speedometer of the Bentley climbing higher as he sped his way through the city. Like humans doing their best to improve the world and books about stars he missed almost desperately but refused to visit alone.

Like Aziraphale, face lit up as he talked about a new book, or content as they dined at a favourite restaurant, or lined with worry but still gentle as he pulled Crowley back to consciousness before wrapping him in a firm and comforting hug.

Like Aziraphale, smiling so softly, so warmly, just for him and in a way no one else ever had or ever would, when he leaned in to -

No. She couldn't have that one.

He backtracked those thoughts instead, in favour of giving more attention to the growing pressure of her knife beside his eye. Back to the last time Aziraphale had woken him up. That had been nice. A relief. And the angel had promised him this wouldn't happen again.

That would have been nice too, if it had been true.

He considered the idea of Aziraphale saving him this time, too. Crowley was truly glad he wasn't there, but he couldn't help the thought.

That Aziraphale would put an end to this, that his angel could save the day, if not a not-so-slowly fading demon in a not-so-slowly dying human body.

Sudden screaming, surprisingly not his own, redirected his attention somewhere to his right, and the removal of the knife from his eye as Amabilis whirled towards the noise allowed him to turn his head to follow the sound as well.

Two of the demons had been there, deep in conversation over an assortment of blades, discussing which length and serration style would be best for limb removal.

They were still there, technically.

But one of them was already reduced to a bubbling, lightly glowing pile of sludge. The other was still screaming - or more gurgling, now, because the mouth was already melting, sliding off its face as thin jets of water continued to land across its body. It looked a slow process, at least until a sudden splash of water suddenly landed on top of its sizzling head, and that demon quickly joined the first in a puddle on the ground.

Crowley continued to stare, his foggy mind taking its sweet time processing the scene, but Amabilis gave her own short scream of frustration even as she staggered slightly and the darkness around them started to waver. She snapped her fingers, and she and the remaining two demons were gone. The darkness continued to dissolve, giving way to light and shape and a very familiar living room.

And a very, _very_ familiar angel, empty bottle in one hand and a water gun in the other.

Crowley blinked hard a couple times, both to adjust to the sudden light and to try to focus on who was now the only other person in the room, dropping his weapons and rushing towards him. Aziraphale wiped his hands on his shirt, sure to dry any trace of water from them before dropping to his knees beside him, giving no notice at all to the sticky blood covering the floor.

"Crowley! Here, let me just - don't move."

That would have been funny, maybe, but he couldn't force his brain to shape a witty retort or his mouth to form the words, so he didn't say a thing and only watched Aziraphale's face as he reached for one of the knives still impaled through his hands.

There was a rage there, not like anything he'd ever seen on the angel's face before, but it was layered with sorrow and pain and a few other emotions the demon was well-acquainted with. He was crying, and Crowley understood that sentiment too, because he was pretty sure he was doing the same.

It could have been blood running down his own face instead, though. He couldn't quite tell the difference anymore.

Could be it was both.

Aziraphale gripped one of the knives firmly, pulled it straight out and upwards without a moment's hesitation, and passed his other hand over the injury quickly enough that Crowley hadn't even had time to instinctively pull it back towards his chest. The wound closed, the pain faded somewhat, but it didn't heal completely. The angel frowned at that, but didn't pause to dwell on it as he quickly did the same for his wing and then his other hand. He was about to move again, back to his feet to circle around and see to the demon's wings, but Crowley reached out a hand to grasp at his sleeve.

Amabilis had been right about one thing, at least. Whatever she'd done to his back, he could hardly feel his wings at the moment and they weren't his most pressing concern. And Aziraphale disappearing from his blurry eyesight for even a moment, even if it was just to move a few feet around to help him, wasn't at all what he wanted.

"You found me," the relief in his voice was greater for the fact that Aziraphale had stopped when Crowley reached for him, hadn't moved at all save to be closer to him.

The anger in the angel's expression gave way just a little more to sorrow, and he inched forward just a little further to be able to wrap Crowley in a gentle hug without the demon needing to move. And Crowley, eyes closed and head settled against a warm and familiar chest as a hand ran through his hair and down the side of his face with all the care he had thought he'd never experience again, could sense rather than see the strong, white wings that encircled him as well.

"Darling...you didn't go anywhere," Aziraphale said softly, eventually, in response to a comment Crowley had already almost forgotten he'd spoken. He wasn't warm, but he wasn't so cold anymore either, just...a little numb. But that was fine. Nice, even, compared to just a short time ago, and it would have been immensely easy to drift off in his angel's embrace.

"What? Was dark 'nd such, really dark..." He was tired, so, so tired, if Aziraphale would just let him sleep for a minute...

"Crowley, look at me, please?"

He didn't want to, didn't want to move at all, but somehow he always seemed to end up doing a great many things he didn't much care to, only because it was an angel who asked. He lifted his head, opened his eyes, and the light in the room was much gentler when filtered through soft, white feathers.

Aziraphale moved his hand from matted hair to rest on the side of his neck instead, leaned forward just a little further so their foreheads were touching. There wasn't anywhere else he could look besides painfully beautiful, painfully sad blue eyes.

"You were here the entire time. So was I. I don't know how it happened, I couldn't help you, I couldn't touch anything. I could only watch, I couldn't stop them, I don't know why..."

He stopped hearing the angel's words, struggling to focus on what he'd already said. He'd been there the whole time? That was...awful.

"But you _did_ stop them," Crowley interrupted the rambling when he'd processed the next bit, and he made the attempt to not slur his words. "You did. You saved me." There were fresh tears welling up in Aziraphale's eyes again. Crowley would hate to see them fall, so he tried to grin. "With a supermarket water gun. The very definition of heroic."

Aziraphale gave him a tiny, watery smile, and the extra effort that had been speaking was instantly worth it. "There was a shift. All of a sudden I was corporeal again, I could interact with the world, and I didn't waste any time. I'm sorry I didn't get her, I didn't want to splash you by mistake..."

Crowley considered that, and his own fragmented thought process. Amabilis had been right again, his powers could be a Hell of a thing.

"That's why you could do it," he said aloud, and smiled again, a little easier, at the silent question on his angel's face. "Because I thought that you would."

Aziraphale hugged him close again, pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. And with his head tucked back under the angel's chin and comforting arms wrapped tight obscuring his vision, Crowley didn't have have to watch the tears fall.


	8. Part 2 Chapter 6

Aziraphale held Crowley close to him and didn't move for a long, long time.

The demon had fallen asleep some time ago, and although the angel wasn't exactly happy with that - he was worried, no, _afraid_ that he might not wake up again - he also wasn't so cruel as to try and keep him awake any longer. He could just pay special mind towards keeping a figurative eye on his vitals, instead.

Because he was worried - no, _terrified_ \- that Crowley was frighteningly close to discorporation, or worse. He didn't know what would happen to him if he passed in this state, in these circumstances, but he was ready to do his level best and ensure that they wouldn't be finding out.

He healed what he could, as best he could, and didn't give a damn if Heaven had a problem with it. Even sent a little glare of defiance upwards, in case anyone happened to be watching. But no one and nothing interrupted them, and while Aziraphale only seemed to be able to do away with superficial wounds, it would help to ease Crowley's pain if nothing else. He willed the demon's wings back to the other plane with a concentrated thought, both to keep them safer and so Crowley wouldn't see them when he woke up. But the dark patterns under his skin, now a vivid black and nearly reaching his hairline at the back of his neck and creeping out from under the cuffs of his sleeves, didn't fade in the least no matter what he tried.

And then he waited, stayed still save for a hand that continued to run through Crowley's hair and over his back in a careful fashion. He waited, and wept, and paid no mind to the blood on the floor that stained his clothes and the tips of his wings a dark and somber red.

It wasn't all that long before Crowley stirred again though, not with a scream or a whimper but only a quiet, ragged cough. Aziraphale glanced down at the top of his head but Crowley only tightened his arms around the angel the slightest amount, pressed his face back into his shirt. He mumbled something quietly after a moment.

"What was that, love?"

The grip around him tightened just a bit further, and Crowley turned his head slightly so he wouldn't be speaking into fabric. "Don't do that, my heart can't handle it right now."

Aziraphale smiled softly even though Crowley couldn't see his face. "If you say so. Dear."

Crowley huffed, absolutely no real annoyance behind it, and finally pulled himself up and away slightly so they could talk face to face. Aziraphale let his grasp fall away as he did so, but then took no time in reaching for one of Crowley's hands to hold with both his own instead. No longer embracing, but still close, still touching, still just the two of them shielded from the rest of the world by a cocoon of soft, white feathers.

"I ssaid," Crowley continued, placing his other hand on top of Aziraphale's after only half a moment's hesitation. "Two down, three to go. Shall we get on with it?"

"Crowley, you're in no condition to be doing anything of the sort!"

"I'm fine, angel. I'm fine now."

Aziraphale would have scoffed if those words hadn't already chipped away at another piece of his heart. He felt the frozen hand trembling between his own, heard the shallow breathing that seemed to rattle the demon's chest, saw the dull yellow eyes sunken into a deathly pale face made worse by the dark veins slowly creeping up his neck.

"You're not fine at all. Just rest for now."

"Angel..." Crowley's voice grew quieter and he dropped his gaze to stare resolutely at their hands instead. "I don't think we should wait."

He knew that, of course. But he wasn't ready to acknowledge it quite yet, or the implications behind it. "You need to regain some strength. Just a day or two, you'll be right as rain and -"

"Aziraphale. I don't think I _can_ wait."

The finality and distress in his tone were as painful as the words themselves.

"I...I know. Of course. I'm sorry. I'm just..." For someone who had spent centuries talking just to fill a silence while he searched for something worth actually saying, he found himself at a loss now. "I'm just afraid. For you."

There was a small, gentle smile on Crowley's face, the one he only ever seemed to wear when it was just the two of them, when he raised their hands and pressed his lips to Aziraphale's knuckles. "I know. I'm blessed, aren't I?"

And Aziraphale wanted to cry again, for a dozen new reasons in addition to the old.

* * *

He helped Crowley to the couch, made sure he was comfortable as could be before he turned back to the rest of the room and began preparing it for another summoning. He'd only just started drawing a new circle when a knock on a door turned two pairs of eyes towards the hallway.

The knock had been at the door at the end of that hallway, the exit of the flat at the top of the stairs, and not at the bookshop entrance itself.

"Do you think it's Anathema?" Crowley asked after a moment, already dragging himself back to his feet and swaying an alarming amount as he did so.

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale was fairly certain it had to be a human, the ward that he'd never dropped hadn't warned him otherwise. "Wait here."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Crowley was already stumbling his way towards the door, and Aziraphale quickly caught up and pulled one of the demon's arms around his shoulders.

"Stubborn. Let me help you, at least."

They made their way down the hall, and Crowley pulled away as they arrived at the door to lean rather heavily on the wall instead.

Aziraphale imagined he thought he might pass as exuding an air of cool indifference. Aziraphale also knew he would be the last person on earth to tell the demon he looked rather more like someone very close to knocking on a different, final door belonging to Someone Else.

Best not to think about Him, though. Didn't want to bring about any unwanted attention.

He opened the door, expecting to see Anathema or Newton, and was surprised to see another, still familiar human instead.

"Package for you, sir," said the deliveryman cheerfully, holding out a long, slim parcel and a clipboard. "Urgent delivery, they said. Must have been, because truthfully I don't even remember how I got to work. One moment I was enjoying the game, next I was on my way here. Were you expecting something?" He didn't seem put off in the least by any of that, nor by the fact he was conversing quite happily with two past acquaintances covered in drying blood.

"I was not," Aziraphale replied, although he already knew what it was. Perhaps Someone upstairs had been watching after all. "But it's a pleasant surprise, thank you."

The deliveryman touched a finger to the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, took back his signed paperwork, and wished them both a pleasant day before heading back down the stairs, whistling a cheerful tune.

"How very thoughtful." Crowley's remark was flippant, but lacking some of the usual contempt that was present when he spoke about the Almighty. Aziraphale didn't reply, only opened the parcel and pulled out his sword, definitely the same one despite the fact it looked recently polished. And there was something else in the box as well.

Two somethings.

"Oh, that's definitely holy," Crowley frowned and leaned away from the package and its contents as Aziraphale pulled out another, much shorter blade, as though it were radiating something unpleasant.

Though for a demon, it really was doing just that. "Yes, I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Maybe they're for our human friends?" Aziraphale was almost touched that She would offer some extra protection for the two of them, after everything that had happened. Almost. He couldn't help thinking it all would have been much nicer if She had decided to intervene just a tad sooner.

Still. Better late than never.

Even though he wanted to be annoyed, maybe a little angry with Her, he was still grateful. And feeling much more confident.

He placed the sword and the dagger back into the box and closed it up before reaching for Crowley's arm with his free hand. "Back to it, then?"

"Are you going to stab them?" Crowley asked as they walked, slowly, back towards the other room. "Or, you know..." he mimicked a gun with one hand and aimed it at the former demons, or what was left of them, still smoking slightly on the other side of the room as they rounded the corner.

"I don't know. The latter would probably be quicker," he led Crowley back to the couch.

"More fun, too." Crowley sounded damn near cheerful as he said it, and Aziraphale found the notion a little bit unsettling as he turned back towards the circle he'd started some minutes previously.

But then he thought briefly of the two demons he'd already destroyed as he began to draw again. Before today, he'd always thought he would feel some grief, some regret, some disappointment in having purposefully taken another creature's life. Even if that creature was a demon.

Now he knew better. He'd felt nothing of the sort, and while it hadn't exactly been 'fun', he was entirely prepared to do it again.

Crowley had fallen asleep again by the time Aziraphale was ready, three summoning circles beside each other on the floor and a few buckets that hadn't existed a few minutes before, filled with freshly blessed water, sitting innocently beside them. He rolled up his sleeves, retrieved his sword from the box, and let a careful hand rest gently on Crowley's shoulder. "Rise and shine, dear."

"Oh, I wasn't sleeping," Crowley said, very much with a tone and expression of one who had most definitely been sleeping. He pulled himself back into a sitting position before promptly leaning forward in a harsh coughing fit. Aziraphale gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, frowned at the blood in his hand when he finally settled, and Crowley wiped it away on already thoroughly ruined dark jeans.

"I can only summon one at a time, but we'll have to be quick about it anyway."

Crowley only nodded and held out his other hand so Aziraphale could help him to his feet. He glanced approvingly at the setup. "Next time let's try a kiddie pool and a markered circle on some cellophane. Now _that_ would be quick."

"What?"

"Nothing." He had one hand still resting heavily on Aziraphale's shoulder, but only for another moment before he let it fall away and straightened up as much as he could. "Do you think canes might be coming back into fashion anytime soon? I could go for one, I think."

"Do you want one now? I can miracle it, or I'm sure I still have mine from the seventeenth century. Maybe I'll -"

"I appreciate that, angel, but let's get this over with first."

"Right, right. You should maybe stand back, just a little."

Crowley did as requested, and Aziraphale approached the first circle.

It wasn't long before he was standing before another familiar demon. One he had actually met in passing, once, several weeks ago on a busy London sidewalk. One who had saved a bottle of wine from shattering on the ground, and Aziraphale had thanked him with the greatest lie he'd spoken in centuries, although he hadn't known it at the time.

_"No harm done."_

"Reinildis, is it?" Aziraphale spoke evenly, sword still held loosely by his side. Honestly, the audacity of these demons and their chosen names...

"Who else would I be? You called me here," he snarled in reply, very much looking like he'd enjoy nothing more than to step through that circle and tear the angel apart. And he possibly could, Aziraphale though grimly, thinking of Crowley's poor wings.

The angel nodded and carefully set his sword down, before reaching for a bucket instead. "Alright, I only wanted to make sure before I did this."

He didn't wait for what the demon's last words might be, didn't wait for him to potentially plead his case or beg for mercy. It didn't matter, because it wouldn't have done any good.

Contrary to popular belief, angels didn't always carry out fair trials, nor were they always merciful.

"A bit unpleasant, isn't it?" Crowley asked conversationally as Aziraphale moved onto the second circle, not taking any time to regard the newest pile of former-demon oozing into the floorboards of his home. He would definitely need to find somewhere else to live, after this.

They both would. Maybe Crowley would ask him to stay at his flat, again?

He wouldn't turn him down this time.

"Just make sure you're well enough away," was what he said out loud, before starting the next summoning. "Wouldn't want you getting splashed."

The next demon - Sebaldus, _oh please_ \- wasn't even granted the time to confirm his name before being doused with another bucket and promptly melted into the floor.

"Getting a little trigger-happy now, angel," Crowley said approvingly from the other side of the couch, and Aziraphale wasn't sure whether he'd moved there for an extra barrier between him and the water or for something to lean on. Or both. Either way, he was dismayed to see what little colour may have been left in the demon's face had quickly disappeared in the last few minutes.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Crowley tried and failed to wave his concern away with a stiff hand laced with black veins. "It's just, she's lost a lot of energy sources, hasn't she? I might be the only one left."

"We'll finish this now," Aziraphale approached the last circle, already whispering well-known words, just before a soft alarm chimed a warning in his head at the same time Crowley did aloud.

"Aziraphale!"

He felt the shift in the air behind him, the slight movement in space as another entity suddenly made itself present, and he barely had time to grab for his sword, spinning around and bringing it up to defend himself just as another, darker blade met it with a harsh clang of metal.

"It's nice to finally meet, _angel_," Amabilis hissed. She grinned at him from between crossed blades, happy to display pointed teeth, but her eyes held a rage and a hatred the likes of which he'd never witnessed face to face before.

But she didn't look...well. Sallow, almost translucent skin, and there was a tremor in her arms that shook his own sword, though it didn't seem to lessen her strength any.

She leaned towards him, forcing him to steady himself before pushing back. "You've cost me quite a lot today, you know that? I'll be happy to return that favour."

Aziraphale didn't answer, only met her burning gaze and pressed onwards, determined not to let her get the upper-hand in their deadlock. If only Crowley weren't there, then he could use some more...angelic countermeasures.

Crowley.

Where _was_ Crowley?

"Don't you dare," Amabilis gave another sudden push that caused him to stumble back half a step, but she hadn't been talking to him and she used the second of free movement to throw a hand out towards the other demon, who had just wrapped a hand around one of the blessed daggers in the forgotten parcel. The motion threw him backwards and his head hit the wall with a harsh crack on the opposite side of the room.

Aziraphale would have been shocked - with horror or relief, it would be hard to say - that Crowley was still conscious, crumpled on the floor, as he groaned and dropped the knife to hold an already blistered hand gingerly to the back of his head.

He would have been shocked, but he wasn't because he didn't notice. He didn't waste that half an instant when Amabilis was otherwise occupied, and didn't hesitate as he drove his sword straight through her chest.

She let out a cry, one more of rage than pain, and dropped her own sword as she reached for his, hands gripping at the blade in a frenzied attempt to pull it out.

The angel pushed it through a little further, the movement slicing through her hands as well as her body. The sword wasn't holy, but it was still made in Heaven, and it would do the trick if he waited long enough. With a thought, the blade burst into flame. "You won't hurt him, or anyone else, ever again."

She glared down at the fire starting to catch on her skin and clothes, let out a small, wet cough before grinning up at him again, teeth darkened with black blood as more of it began to run down her chin. "Maybe just one more."

And Aziraphale could see the sparks of another kind of fire lighting up behind pointed teeth, felt the painful, repellent heat between them as her hand burst into flames, and considered the unfortunate thought that maybe she, unlike most of her kind, hadn't heard the news that he was supposedly immune to Hellfire.

But, just as suddenly, that fire died away, disappeared from her hand and the back of her throat as red eyes broke contact with his and instead focused on something behind him. She seemed to wilt, slumped forwards a little, sliding even further onto his sword. The flames began catching in earnest, burning skin even as her body started to disintegrate outwards from where the blade was impaled.

Amabilis met his stare one last time, still managed to smile even as the flames made their way up her neck. "Just one more."

Aziraphale waited a moment longer, for her face to go up in flames and start turning to black dust, before looking to follow where her gaze had been moments before.

He hadn't let go of the sword when he did so, but it did clatter to the floor a second later to join a quickly growing pile of dark, smoking ash.

Crowley was still sitting, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, broken wings hanging limply at his back. From the distance across the room, it looked as though he were meeting the angel's terrified gaze, and the soft, barely-there smile was back on his lips. But he wasn't really watching him, Aziraphale knew that even as he was already running the short distance to be at his side.

Because he also had two hands gripped around the handle of a smoking holy dagger, its blade pressed straight through his chest, right where any human body's heart would be.

Amabilis would die just as quickly as any other demon if there was no one left to draw strength from.

Aziraphale, too panicked to try and form words, dropped to his knees beside the demon. What had been the demon. He reached for the knife, pried it from cold, burned hands and out of Crowley's chest. It hadn't been the knife that was smoking, it was the wound it had created, dark and much wider than a regular blade would have done.

And much more final. The tiny part of him that had hoped, had _prayed_ that the removal of the weapon would miraculously bring Crowley back to him, flaked away like so much blackened ash as it died in his chest.

He stared into golden eyes, empty and unseeing but still locked with his own, echoing with a love that Aziraphale understood all too well.

Aziraphale held Crowley's body close to him and didn't move for a long, long time.


	9. Part 2 Chapter 7

When Crowley opened his eyes, he didn't know where he was at first.

It took a moment to realise, to remember the place. The place that was nowhere, really.

Or Heaven, technically. But much further passed where even most angels tended to wander.

He sat up with ease, gave his neck a satisfying, painless crack. His wings were stretched out behind him, whole and healthy, and almost seemed to reflect the stars twinkling happily from all directions as he glanced around.

He could get used to this. It was nice and quiet. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Lonely.

_"Hello, Crowley,"_ said a voice, both in his head and all around him at once. It was so achingly familiar, even all these centuries later, that the sudden sorrow and pain it caused to tighten his chest was second only to the thought of Aziraphale, back on earth and so, so alone.

"Hi," he said, eventually, determined to sound uninterested despite the fact he was finally speaking with Her. The One he'd periodically been calling for throughout his long life. Calling for, and always remaining unanswered.

So yes. Uninterested, and angry. The latter didn't take much pretending.

_"Do you know where you are?"_

"Not where I thought I'd be," he admitted. "But it's an improvement over that, at least."

_"Is it where you want to be?"_

"Of course it isn't! You think I killed myself just for a quick trip up here? Please. It's not that great."

_"Why'd you do it, then?"_

He frowned, not exactly sure what direction he should be sending it, but he figured She would be seeing it nevertheless. "Why are you asking me so many questions?"

_"I thought you_ liked _questions, Crowley."_

Oh, now She was just being cruel.

"Why are you calling me Crowley?" he countered, not quite ready to give in to that particular temptation being dangled in front of him. "Why not -"

_"Crowley is the name you chose for yourself, is it not?"_

"Oh, er, well yes. But you -"

She interrupted him again. _"Then it's your name, and that's why I call you as such. So, Crowley, why did you kill yourself?"_

He glanced down at his hands, no longer injured but also no longer existing at all, really - just balancing somewhere between the planes, wavering and translucent, while She apparently decided what to do with him.

Was this another trial?

"Seems a bit much, don't you think?" he asked finally, holding a hand out to see the way the starlight would shine through it. "_God_ being the judge, jury, and executioner for lil old me."

_"Crowley,"_ said Her voice, with all the patience of someone with infinite experience in dealing with unruly children, and all the thinly veiled exasperation of someone who might much prefer to be doing anything else. _"I can wait as long as it takes for an answer. We have all the time in the world."_

And they really did, didn't they? All the time in the world, an eternity up in the stars. That didn't sound bad at all.

But it didn't sound like what he wanted, either.

He thought back on the moment, whether it had been only minutes ago or years, he really had no way of knowing. Reaching for the dagger to try and help Aziraphale, and having to turn it on himself in the end. What choice had he had, when he saw the Hellfire light up in her hand?

It wasn't a choice at all.

"She was going to destroy him, it was the quickest thing I could do. I had to save him."

_"Because you love him."_ That one wasn't a question, only a statement.

"...yeah," the admission was easier up there, so far away from anyone who might overhear such a dangerous sentiment, far enough away for even the angels in Heaven not to eavesdrop. Still, it sounded just a bit too candid for him, and for this particular conversation, so he added a little scoff for good measure. "Duh."

_"Demons aren't meant to commit such selfless acts of love,"_ God said matter-of-factly, and Crowley laughed with little humour.

"Wow, so I'm terrible at my job. Never heard that one before."

There was no reply, and since She was right, they had all the time in the world, he decided he wouldn't be pressing the conversation onwards anytime soon.

It was hard to tell, lost both in thought and time among the stars, how long that resolve actually lasted. He leaned back on his hands to enjoy the view all around him, rolled his shoulders and flexed his wings and enjoyed all the painless movement that being incorporeal brought him.

And at some point, found himself staring back down towards the earth again, for a good long while.

"Will he be alright?" Crowley asked eventually, thinking that maybe, if he just tried hard enough, he might be able to focus on a little bookshop in Soho a million miles below them. "You know, eventually. When he's had a little time to get over it."

If he didn't know any better, he'd almost say She sounded a little sad. _"You think he'd really just 'get over it'? Over you?"_

It hurt, just to think about it. His angel, stuck on earth, without a 'side' to turn to and no one to look out for him. "Doesn't have much of a choice, really. And I'd want him to be happy again." Never before had he failed so spectacularly at sounding unconcerned.

_"Do you want to go back?"_

If he still had a heart, it would have started beating very, very quickly. Either that, or stopped entirely. "I didn't think that was how this works."

_"It isn't, usually. But sometimes mistakes are made, and I can correct them."_

"Mistakes? What mistake?"

_"You, being here."_

He glared again, at the endless stars in front of him and at Her as well, hopefully. "That wasn't a _mistake_! That was a choice, and a damned easy one as well."

No immediate reply, but now he was on a roll. It was back again, six thousand years of resentment and despondency bubbling up, no longer hidden behind a facade of indifference and designer sunglasses, and he didn't push it back down this time. "A _mistake_ would be, oh I don't know, like the time you _threw me out of Heaven_? Like when you -"

_"Now, now,"_ the voice was almost haughty. _"You're the one who ended up here. That's all I meant."_

"I didn't deserve it!" Crowley was shouting now, hands balled into angry fists. First Aziraphale, and now this. If an incorporeal entity could shed tears, he'd probably be doing that too. "You _know_ I didn't! And none of this would have happened now if -"

_"- the world had ended a few short months ago. But, you played your part, and it didn't."_

He opened his mouth to retort, but decided there was no point. He'd never get the response he'd been waiting lifetimes to hear. "Well then, I'm _so_ glad all your game pieces on earth are still moving about all according to plan."

_"The Plan, yes."_

He sat for awhile, silently enraged, but didn't bring it up again. And again, he had no idea how much time really passed before he finally spoke. "Did you actually _want_ the apocalypse to happen?"

_"I could answer all your questions, Crowley, or I can send you back. We don't have time for both."_

The blatant lie wasn't lost on him. "What happened to all the time in the world?"

_"That's the problem. Generally speaking, sure, we have that. But the time in _the world_, that's kept going, for quite awhile now. We shouldn't keep Aziraphale waiting."_

Crowley, who had been ready to fire back with something about time and stopping it and the ability to do whatever She pleased thanks to _being God_, faltered.

_"Make your decision, Crowley."_

He wanted his answers, more than almost anything, but he also knew this was a choice where he'd never get to take both options.

So that made the choice pretty easy.

"You're a harsh mistress," he declared, already reaching out to touch the slowly-spinning orb which had appeared in front of him the instant he'd made up his mind.

Her reply followed him a moment later as he began the speedy descent back towards the earth, and the one who was unknowingly waiting for him there.

_"I prefer skeptically benevolent."_

* * *

When Crowley opened his eyes, he knew exactly where he was.

He didn't need a moment to realise, or to remember the place. The place that was home, really.

He blinked slowly, once, twice, and focused on a pair of lovely blue eyes that always shined brighter than any star he'd ever made.

But now they were red-rimmed, and full of tears, and staring back at him with stunned incredulity, and none of those would do at all.

"Crowley?"

It almost wasn't fair, how many emotions his angel could fit into a single word. Especially when that word was his name.

"Hi," he tried to grin, but it was probably more a grimace as all of the physical injuries his body was still stuck with seemed to catch up at once. "God, human bodies can be so fragile."

He really shouldn't complain to Her, though. This was his choice, wasn't it?

And it definitely wasn't his primary concern when Aziraphale promptly burst into a fresh round of tears and pulled him impossibly closer in a borderline painful hug, but Crowley would rather die (again) than ask him to ease up.

"This isn't exactly the reaction I expected to welcome me back..." he said carefully, flexing stiff hands to get some blood moving again before wrapping his arms around the angel. He had his face tucked into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, so Crowley felt rather than saw his shaky chuckle as an answer.

"Rest assured they're happy tears, my dear. I thought...well, you _were_ gone."

"She sent me back," Crowley answered with a tiny shrug. His back and shoulders were aching something terrible, but the pressure eased up a little when Aziraphale let go of him in order to pull away slightly and stare at him in surprise.

"She did?"

"Didn't want to keep me around, I guess," he shrugged again, managed to pull off a real grin, and it only grew when Aziraphale laughed quietly once more, somewhere between amazement and disbelief.

"Lucky for me," he pulled Crowley back into another embrace.

"I know. Who would be the test subject for all your cooking otherwise?"

"Shut up."

Crowley had never before heard those words spoken with such affection and adamance simultaneously, and hugged his angel back just a little more tightly.

* * *

"What do you think? More hot water? More bubbles?"

" 'ss perfect, angel. No need." Crowley didn't open his eyes. He would have waved a hand to dismiss the suggestions, but that would have required taking his arm out of the water, and he had no intention of doing any such thing.

And to think, Aziraphale had had to talk him into the bubble bath. When it had become apparent that the angel still wouldn't be able to heal any of his demonically-induced injuries, he had suggested the bath as an excellent way to reduce some aches and pains.

But 'suggested' was a kind term for it, because when Crowley had been less-than-enthusiastic, Aziraphale had made his mind up for him and carried more than led him towards the bathroom.

Now, submerged in soothing hot water that only left his head sticking out of a mountain of sweet-smelling bubbles, he couldn't imagine leaving it for the next decade or so.

Aziraphale - who had simply miracled himself a clean outfit when they moved rooms - didn't seem keen to leave him be and sat himself on the edge of the tub. "Well, let me check your back at least."

Crowley should have known better. Of course there was one thing that would get him to move. There always was, and always had been.

Still, that didn't stop him from making a _bit_ of a fuss, giving the greatest sigh his damaged lungs would allow as Aziraphale held out a hand to help pull him into a sitting position. The angel couldn't stop the frown that flickered across his face as he saw Crowley's exposed torso, and the demon followed his gaze downwards.

The wound he'd inflicted on himself had closed, probably when he'd 'returned', but it certainly wasn't healed. Like a large, dark, bruise, directly over his heart.

"It doesn't hurt," he said after a moment, and the false confidence in his voice sounded weak even to him. But he was pretty sure it wasn't a lie - everything hurt, and he didn't think that one in particular was causing him any extra grief.

Aziraphale only pursed his lips and nodded before moving to take a look at the demon's back.

"It doesn't look...worse," he said, after taking a moment to carefully wipe away any lingering bubbles.

"Hmm, very persuasive."

"No, really," he did sound more convincing then, at least. "And the veins, or the webs, whatever you want to call it, they're fading already."

Crowley held a hand out of the water again to inspect it more carefully himself. Aziraphale was right, while they definitely weren't gone, they weren't as dark as they had been...before.

The angel said something about washing his hair, but Crowley only hummed his distant acknowledgement, still lost in thought as he studied the patterns on his arm, and the broken fingernails, and the only partially-healed knife wound through his hand, and the blisters across his palm.

He flinched when he felt Aziraphale's hands in his hair, but only a little. The angel's hands were only warm because of the water, and so, so gentle.

"So...so she's really gone, then?"

The hands paused, but only for a moment before they resumed softly massaging shampoo into his scalp. "Yes. And she won't be back."

"Sure about that?"

"Quite certain. She burned, because...because of what you did."

"Ah. Good." Crowley felt no need to elaborate further, just closed his eyes again and enjoyed the feeling of Aziraphale's hands in his hair.

He was almost asleep sitting up by the time the angel gently tipped his head back to rinse his hair, but he could feel the stare he was receiving when Aziraphale's hand didn't leave the back of his neck afterwards, so he dutifully held back a yawn and forced his eyes back open to meet his gaze.

"Why did you do it?"

He'd already answered that question once today.

"It's been a day, angel, I'm bloody tired, maybe -"

"Crowley."

The pleading tone would be too much for him on the best of days, never mind now. He let the guise crack, just a little more.

"I had to, Aziraphale." The angel opened his mouth to argue, but Crowley didn't give him the chance. "She would've destroyed you. Couldn't let that happen."

The look he was receiving now was much too reflective of what he was feeling, too much pensive understanding, and he had to drop his gaze as he quoted a conversation Aziraphale hadn't been present for. "I know, I know - demons aren't meant to commit such selfless acts of love."

"Is that what you'd call it?" Aziraphale's reply was so quiet, almost a whisper, and Crowley realised just a moment too late what he'd said.

He glared at the bubbles, knowing he wouldn't be able to blame the sudden heat in his cheeks on the steam from the water. "Er, that's, well you know that's what some would call it, anyway, and -"

"Whoever might call it that, I appreciate it, because I love you, too."

"- they don't know any better, because demons aren't ever nice, and - wait. What?"

"I love you, too."

"I...I never said..." Crowley's eyes snapped back up to meet Aziraphale's patient gaze, the small smile on his lips and the slightest flush across his own cheeks. Fuck it, he'd already said as much to God Herself, this should be nothing. "I mean. I love you. I mean, obviously."

He wanted nothing more than to sink back under the water when Aziraphale laughed quietly, but settled for a deep sigh. "Listen, angel, I never imagined this happening quite like this. I'm sitting in a bathtub."

"You are. And the bubbles in your hair are quite cute, actually."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake -"

"We can do it again later, if you like. You choose the time and the place."

Every day. Everywhere.

"Not when I'm in the bathtub."

Almost everywhere.

* * *

Tucked into Aziraphale's bed, wearing his cozy plaid housecoat and underneath half a dozen fluffy blankets while nestled into the angel's side also wasn't one of the many scenarios Crowley had imagined for such initial declarations.

But it was better.

"I love you," he said it again, and it was already easier.

"And I love you, dearest." It was fascinating, really, how his angel managed to fit so much of the word itself into just a few syllables.

Maybe it was exhaustion, or adrenaline, or an unholy combination of the two, but the next words were even easier. And he'd be better prepared, this time. "Will you kiss me?"

And when Aziraphale agreed, not with words but with soft, almost reverent actions, Crowley knew without questioning that his final choice in Heaven had been the best he'd ever made.


	10. An Epilogue

Crowley would be a liar if he said he'd never imagined what life might be like, living with Aziraphale.

Reality had yet to really line up with what he may or may not have daydreamed about (perhaps more than a time or two), but he'd been waiting long enough, and he knew they were both prepared to put in the effort of bringing reality and those daydreams a little closer together.

And maybe Crowley _was_ a liar, in general terms, but that didn't mean he meant anything by it.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asked, concern in his voice as obvious as the sun in the sky as they stepped outside the bookshop doors and onto the busy sidewalk.

It was the first sunny, cloudless day London had seen in weeks.

"Oh, I'm fine," Crowley adjusted his glasses with one hand, made certain that the angel wouldn't see him uneasily scanning the crowd of people passing them. Checking for faces he knew he wouldn't see again, but he wasn't able to resist doing so anyway. "Just...you know. Adjusting."

They had decided it might be best to stay elsewhere for awhile, rather than hang around with the recent memories (physical and otherwise) still lingering throughout the angel's small flat. Crowley's place had been the obvious choice, so Aziraphale had packed a few bags for them both and called a cab.

It was difficult, those first few steps out into the sunlight after weeks in the safe haven of Aziraphale's home - a home that had ended up being quite the opposite. As was the whole taxi thing, when Crowley saw the Bentley, shiny as ever and waiting patiently at the curb.

But he couldn't drive, he could barely walk without assistance at the moment, so a gentle pat to the roof and a solemn promise that he'd be back soon would have to do.

All of it was easier, though - both the outside in general, the leaving his car behind, the walking and the effort of hiding wings and injuries - all of it was easier with Aziraphale's gentle grip on his arm and his quiet presence, emanating both comfort and the slightest bit of angelic intervention to help him stand just a little more easily.

"Here we are, hope it'll do," Crowley said when they arrived, as he opened the door to his flat and held an arm out in the grandest gesture his stiff, achey body would allow.

He was going to find his old cane, that much was already certain. Maybe he would just have to bring them back into style himself.

"You know, I'm not sure I've ever been here before," Aziraphale said carefully, stepping inside before moving to hold the door himself so Crowley wouldn't have to.

Crowley was entirely sure that he had, in fact, never been there before. "I don't know. Hard to say, I've been here awhile." He dropped some of his concentration as soon as the door shut behind them, let his wings rest at his back. There were far less things to bump into in his own home, and keeping them hidden took energy he could be using elsewhere.

In fact, he was acutely aware of how sterile the place was, even now, with a thin layer of dust on the few pieces of furniture he actually had. Elegant, yes, but relatively empty and impersonal. Un-lived in.

So unlike the angel's bookshop and flat.

But Aziraphale was only glancing around with interest, before he moved to take Crowley's arm again when the demon failed to stifle a yawn. "Here, let's get you back to bed."

"Did you bring my housecoat?"

"Of course, dear."

* * *

When Crowley woke up again sometime later, from a blessedly dreamless sleep, he was rather disappointed to find himself alone.

Aziraphale wasn't far though, and Crowley found him in familiar company once he finally decided to shuffle his way out of the bedroom.

Most of his plants were still green, their colour perhaps a little faded, but alive and growing nevertheless. It was surprising they were doing so well, all things considered.

Surprising, maybe, or maybe a little bit miraculous.

He was about to suggest as much to Aziraphale, but he paused when he realised what the angel was doing.

Facing the window, on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him, eyes closed as he whispered quietly.

Suddenly feeling as though he had walked into something he had no business witnessing, Crowley considered leaving without a word, but the angel must have noticed his presence. He turned, offered the demon a warm smile as he got back to his feet, and Crowley tried to return it.

"How are you?"

Still exhausted, still sore, still considering another bubble bath. "Fine," he gestured vaguely towards the window the angel had been facing. "All right?"

"Oh yes. I was just, well, saying thank you," Aziraphale explained simply, seeming entirely at ease in equal measures to Crowley's discomfort. "Shall I make us something to eat?" He gave the demon a quick kiss on the cheek as he passed to make his way towards the kitchen.

And Crowley, staring at his still-living plants as he raised a hand to touch his face, wondered if he should consider doing the same.

* * *

"Can I ask you something, angel?" Crowley said a few days later, as Aziraphale brought him another bowl of soup from a kitchen that had never been used for it's intended purpose until he had taken up residence in the flat.

"Of course," Aziraphale sat down at the small table with his own bowl, beside him rather than across from, and Crowley blamed the copious amounts of food he'd been coerced into eating recently on the sensation of butterflies - as some particularly sappy humans might call it - that made itself known in his stomach.

Honestly. It was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

"Everything alright?" Aziraphale must have noticed his expression.

"Fine. But, what would you say to the idea of moving somewhere else?"

It wasn't that he wasn't fond of his flat. He was, in the same sort of way someone who kept the same, uninteresting job for thirty years might be fond of their work. It was familiar, and that was comforting, even if the place itself was not.

Aziraphale didn't seem entirely surprised. "Anywhere you have in mind?"

"Like, maybe outside of London."

And it wasn't that he wasn't fond of the city, either. But it was always loud, always moving, and there were always so many people - so many faces to scan, to put his mind just a little more at ease.

He could do with a break from all three.

"Oh!" Aziraphale was caught off guard by that addition, but he nodded right away. "I never considered that, we've been here so long...but yes, that might be nice."

Crowley nodded as well, more slowly, and gave a tiny sigh of relief as he finally picked up a spoon with a hand covered in dark veins that seemed to fade a little more each day. "Okay. Great. That's great."

"Maybe somewhere with a large garden, we could -" Whatever they could do would have to wait, as a knock at the door interrupted the angel's thought. "They're here already! Just in time for lunch, how lovely."

"Oh yes, lovely," Crowley mumbled as Aziraphale went to answer the door, but the sarcasm was halfhearted at best. Truthfully, he might have been a little interested in seeing their guests again. It was even actual courtesy that got him out of his seat to go and meet them in the hall, this time.

"You're looking much better," Anathema said warmly, once Aziraphale had let them through the door with many happy greetings and hugs.

"Eight hours of sleep, three meals a day, does wonders for one's health," Crowley shrugged and held out a hand, and entirely wasn't expecting for her to go in for a quick hug with him as well, arms careful around his back. He barely had time to give her one awkward pat on the back, more an automatic reaction than anything else, before she pulled away again.

It should have prepared him for the next one, but it didn't. "I'm so glad you aren't dead," Newt's hug was slightly tighter and much longer, to the point where Crowley was silently begging the other two to do something over the human's shoulder. Aziraphale only beamed at him, and Anathema gave a small, not entirely apologetic shrug. He glared at them both, and finally returned the hug with one, unenthused arm. But Newt seemed to accept it, and finally let go. "We were worried!"

Crowley raised a hand to adjust his glasses, and realised with the slightest trace of panic that he'd left them sitting on the dining table. He changed the movement, ran a hand through his hair instead as he shrugged, and was _fairly_ certain he managed pulling off the whole indifferent thing. Besides, neither of them had said anything... "I'm fine. It's, uh, it's nice to see you both."

Even he was a little surprised with how genuine he sounded.

But it was easier, now that there was a few feet of space between them again.

They spent the afternoon chatting over soup, and then tea. Or three of them did. Crowley chimed in once in awhile, but for the most part he was content to let Aziraphale tell his stories - the angel was clearly delighted to have an audience he could speak freely to. He dozed off at one point, untouched cup of tea still in his hand, but when he came to again sometime later it had been carefully set on the table and replaced with a shawl tucked up around his shoulders like a throw blanket.

He pulled it away, giving Aziraphale a meaningless frown, but the angel only smiled a bit wider and tipped his head ever so slightly in the direction of their company, who were now standing and seemed about ready to depart.

"Oh, it's mine," Anathema said, with a patient smile of her own as she took it back from him. "You looked a little cold, that's all."

"Before you go, these are for you, we think," Aziraphale saved Crowley from having to stutter out some reply to the witch as he retrieved a small box from beside his own chair. "Some extra protection, after everything that happened. Just in case."

Crowley stayed quiet, only watched on and didn't elaborate any further when the angel also asked them not to open it until they were gone. Anathema would know what they were, and neither of them had any desire in seeing those knives again.

Or maybe just one in particular. But they'd also decided there was no need for the humans to know that one of those daggers had already been used once, so it was easier to just keep them both out of sight.

Out of sight, out of mind. They'd both heard that one before, although Crowley didn't often find it much of an accurate statement.

It wasn't true of the dagger, and it didn't turn out to be correct about the humans either, as Crowley found himself still thinking about them long after they departed, with one last round of hugs and well wishes.

He would have to give them their new address, after they moved. He wouldn't mind seeing them again.

* * *

"What about this one? Lots of space, we could set up a library," Crowley suggested a week on, raising his phone so Aziraphale, currently sitting on the couch behind him, could see the realty listing over his shoulder.

"It looks lovely, my dear. Now just stay still for a moment..."

"You didn't look. I know you didn't look, you - ow!" Crowley had started to turn around but then flinched slightly, and managed to resist the urge of pulling his wing out of the angel's firm but careful grip as he continued changing bandages.

"I'm sorry! I did say not to move. Make a list, we'll look at them all once I'm finished."

Crowley grumbled something unintelligible but dutifully turned back around so Aziraphale could continue his work.

But he did have a collection of a few more houses by the time the angel finished, so that helped to offset the necessary pain that seeing to his wings always brought about.

Necessary pain he was more than willing to tolerate, because now, finally, it actually seemed to be helping. Aziraphale's specific brand of healing could only do so much, but human methods of care and time were seeing to the rest. He'd even dared a look the other day, and there were soft, downy feathers starting to grow back in a few places.

Slow progress was still progress.

"You're alright?" Aziraphale asked, as he always did after tending to the demon's wings.

"Fine, thanks," Crowley willed his wings off their current plane with a thought and then raised his phone pointedly. "Now. This list?"

Aziraphale smiled patiently, placed gentle hands on Crowley's shoulders to pull him back until he was resting against the couch, between the angel's knees. He placed a kiss on top of Crowley's hair, then turned his attention to the tiny screen begging for his attention. "Let's see it. I heard something about a library..."

* * *

There were still nightmares.

Of demons, and angels, and sometimes Someone greater than any of them. Of red eyes and sharp knives and golden blood and vast expanses of empty, lonely darkness. Of things that were memories and things that had never happened at all.

Not every night. But often enough that sleeping, after those first few days where he had been far too exhausted to even have dreams, had quickly become a bit of a gamble each time.

For someone who used to take great pleasure in sleeping, Crowley was desperately looking forward to the days ahead when he wouldn't need to be doing quite so much of it.

He never woke up alone, though, after that first day. Aziraphale was always there, tucked into bed beside him with a book placed off to the side in favour of gentle hugs and comforting words and, on the worst nights, brushing away frightened tears and keeping those hugs a little more firm until any lingering sobs had finally quietened.

"Any better?" he would ask softly, eventually, one hand running soothingly through Crowley's hair, the other claimed in a tight grip that the demon didn't ever want to loosen, not even after he'd eventually drift off again.

"I'm fine."

The lie in those words always sounded particularly obvious, in those moments. Crowley knew it, and he knew the angel did too. But Aziraphale never commented on that, would instead only hold him a little closer and sometimes, on the demon's request, provide a little bit of angelic grace to help him on his way to a more peaceful sleep.

"I'm here to help, Crowley, however I can. You know that."

"I know that," he would agree with a yawn, already feeling more at ease, wrapped up in the arms of his angel. "Thank you."

He wasn't fine, yet. But he would be.

"Sleep well, darling. I love you."

He most definitely would be.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading!


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